


(Once in a) Blue Moon

by clarkoholic, skywardsmiles



Series: Blue Moon [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, Hurt!Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Mages, Magic!Stiles, Mates, Mpreg, Other Pack, Parenthood, Sharing a Bed, Werebabies, Werewolf Mates, and there's a goat, hippie!werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkoholic/pseuds/clarkoholic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywardsmiles/pseuds/skywardsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek are getting along, but they’re not a <i>family</i>, and they’re sure as hell not mates. Christ, they’re basically just two stupid guys who happened to get pregnant because of a full moon and sheer dumb luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is completed at just over 55K, but we'll be posting one new chapter a day over the next two weeks.
> 
> Also, we be tumblin: [clarkoholic](http://clarkoholic.tumblr.com/) & [boomboxgeneration](http://boomboxgeneration.tumblr.com/)

They're just fucking around. Derek let his eyes linger a little too long that one time Stiles was stripping out of his sweaty shirt after a training session and Stiles caught him. He grinned wickedly at Derek and showed up at the loft the next night smelling of desire and determination. 

Derek tried to resist. Kind of. Okay, he didn't so much try as take one step back when Stiles walked right up to him, grinning and saying something along the lines of, "I know you want me." Derek's still not sure what exactly he said. He was distracted. Stiles was up in his business, quite literally backing him into a wall, and saying things and touching Derek's arm and it was... distracting.

The point is, they're just fucking around. Stiles comes home on the weekends, and they fuck. Derek visits him on campus sometimes, and they fuck. Occasionally, when they’re busy, they meet halfway and get in a quicky in the back of the Camaro, or the gas station bathroom, or that one time at Denny's. They don't really talk about it. Derek knows Stiles sleeps with people at school, he can smell them on him sometimes, and Stiles doesn't have any qualms about mentioning his sexual activities in front of him. It's enough that Derek knows Stiles isn't in this for anything more than sex, not that Derek wants it to be anything more. He hasn't been with anyone else but that's mostly because that might involve talking to people and he'd really rather not. He's satisfied enough with their fairly frequent encounters.

It's easier with Stiles, anyway. Stiles knows he's a werewolf, likes it even. He lets Derek get a little rough, toss him on the bed, hold him down a little harder than he'd be able to with anyone out of the know. Plus—and this is probably Derek's number one reason for loving sex with Stiles (beside the actual sex. With Stiles)—Stiles lets Derek knot him. Derek's pretty sure Stiles loves his knot, from the way he likes to reach back and touch the base when it's buried deep in him and there was that one time he said, "I really love your knot up my ass."

Like right now, Stiles is walking backwards toward Derek's bed, pulling the zipper of his jeans down, his shirt and belt already discarded. Not two minutes ago he stormed through the door to Derek's loft mumbling angrily about an essay and professors being asshats when he grabbed Derek and pulled him up the stairs saying, "I kinda need you to fuck me."

Derek didn't have to be told twice.

Derek pulls Stiles into a kiss by his belt loops before they reach the bed. Stiles puts his arms around Derek's shoulders and rubs his hands down his back to grab the hem of his shirt and yank it over his head. Derek kisses him again and Stiles sighs against his lips as his hands roam down Derek's chest and slink around to the small of his back so they're practically hugging. Derek takes some of his weight, letting Stiles relax against him and he maneuvers them onto the bed finally.

Stiles may have initiated but Derek takes charge now, knowing Stiles needs some stress relief—he looks worn, his body tight with stress and his eyes tired. Stiles lets him, more confirmation that he needs Derek to take the lead, to take care of him. Stiles always looks after everyone else, to his own detriment sometimes, and Derek knows how weary that can feel, knows it's nice to let go of the reigns occasionally and let someone else worry about the semantics. This is something he can do for Stiles, something he's actually good at.

Stiles goes pliant under him, letting Derek undress him fully. Derek pulls back to rid himself of his own clothes and when he looks down at Stiles—already looking more relaxed, loose limbs splayed across the bed and the tension in his features eased—something clenches in his chest. He's suddenly more grateful than ever that Stiles isn't a werewolf and can't hear the way his pulse is overreacting. Fucking hell. It’s just Stiles, and Stiles is—

—well, Stiles is gorgeous. Though he'd fight Derek on it if he said it out loud. He'd say, "Shut up, I'm adorable. There's a difference," like he still pictures himself as that gawky sixteen year old with a buzzed head and full cheeks. Not the lithe man he is now, with sharp bone structure and those lips. _Christ_ , those lips. Derek captures them again, lining their bodies up and lowering himself slowly on top of him, feeling Stiles' body temperature and heart rate rise with the contact.

Stiles stiffens a little after a blissful minute of kissing and says, "oh," like he's just realized something.

Derek pulls back, concerned. "What is it? Are you okay? Did I do something?"

Stiles give him a _look_ and rolls his eyes. "No, idiot. I just remembered the full moon is tonight."

"Oh," Derek says, eloquently (not really, at all). He relaxes, though. He's all too often worried he's doing something he shouldn't or being too rough or just ruining things in general. Force of habit, he supposes. “Right.”

Stiles laughs. “You’re a total loser. You’re a werewolf, and you forgot it’s the full moon?"

“I didn’t forget,” Derek huffs, leaning in again to kiss him. “There was one already this month.”

“And you didn't notice there was another.” Stiles looks impossibly amused, and he quirks one eyebrow, seeming to be waiting on something. “So...”

“So?” Derek asks.

Stiles keeps staring at him.

“ _Oh_ ," he says again, understanding. "You want me to?"

"Don't I always?"

"Yeah, but -"

"But nothing. Yes, okay? I want your knot." Stiles smirks. "Knot me up, buttercup."

Derek growls softly. "Shut up." Stiles knows he hates pet names.

Stiles has a glint in his eyes, barely holding a straight face, his lips ticking up at the corners when he says, "Aw, why so glum, sugarplum?"

Derek leans down and growls deeply against his throat so it reverberates through his skin. It doesn't have the affect he wants, though, because Stiles starts laughing. Typical. "If you really want to scare me into shutting up, you probably shouldn't get _more_ wolfy.” He lowers his voice, grinning. “It just makes me want your knot more.”

"Maybe I won't give it to you," Derek warns, aiming for serious but falling somewhere closer to fond.

"You wouldn't," Stiles gapes, his eyes still crinkling with laughter. "You know you can't control it this close to the full moon."

It’s true. He can only knot a few days before and after the full moon and the urge is so strong, it’s difficult to have sex without it. He’s always avoided hookups near the full moon before, and it’s nice not to worry about it for once in his life. "Well, maybe I'll just fuck you with my fingers." He punctuates it by pressing two fingers against Stiles' hole and Stiles gasps, arching toward Derek.

"You're a knot-tease," Stiles says, looking down between them to Derek's dick, knot already beginning to swell at the base. Stiles pushes up and flips their positions, sitting back on his knees between Derek's legs. "Like you could resist me." He smirks and bends down to mouth at the bulge at the base of his cock.

"Shit," Derek wheezes. His knot is more sensitive than the rest of his dick and the metaphorical sparks start flying as Stiles works his lips up his dick and back down against his knot again, alternating between pressing with his tongue and sucking.

Stiles pulls back up, grinning. "Thought so."

"Now who's the tease?" Derek asks, breathing heavily.

"You started it,” he teases.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Derek rolls to the side and pulls some lube from the bedside table. He slicks his fingers and motions for Stiles to come closer. "Come here,” he says. Stiles straddles his legs and leans down to kiss him while Derek’s fingers brush underneath his balls and against his perineum and back.

Stiles groans into his mouth when he pushes two fingers in. Their kisses become sloppy and labored as he works Stiles open. Stiles’ arms are shaking with the effort to hold himself up and eventually he flops his chest against Derek’s, breaking the kiss to pant into Derek’s shoulder.

"Ready,” Stiles gasps. "Fuck, come on.”

Derek flips him and takes a moment to catch his own breath and slick his cock. He puts a pillow under Stiles hips and lines up. "You good?” he asks, looking Stiles in the eyes. Stiles rolls them.

"Yes, I’m ready. You aren’t going to hurt me, Derek. How many times do we have to do this?”

"Every time.” Derek fixes him with his stern face, which does absolutely nothing because of all the people Derek encounters on a regular basis, Stiles is the one who has seen him bared—in more ways than physically—and is immune to Derek’s bitch-faces.

He pushes in, stopping at the top of his knot, and gives a few shallow thrusts. Stiles pulls him by the shoulders and licks at his neck, his breath hitching with each thrust as he increases speed. "Do it already,” Stiles says, labored and sweating beneath him. They have this down to a science now, and he pushes in slowly, letting Stiles stretch and adjust until his knot is in completely.

"You good?” Derek asks again, his own breathing matching Stiles panting.

"Y-Ye,” Stiles stutters as Derek shifts, his knot pushing in further. "Yes,” he continues, "fuck. Yes, so good.”

Derek starts to move and Stiles bites at the base of his neck, moaning around the muscle, and Derek will never tell him that he’s the only person he’s ever allowed to do that. A lot of werewolves, especially alphas, would consider that a sign of submission. Derek thinks the idea is a little antiquated but it still makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, the proverbial hackles. With Stiles, though, it’s not a warning—it’s nice, like a shiver down his spine.

Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, pulling him slightly deeper and Derek swears. "Shit. Stiles,” he huffs into his ear. He sucks on his earlobe and nips underneath at his jaw, his rhythm quickening.

Stiles gasps, "Your knot, I love it. Fuck, Derek...”

Derek hides his smile into the pillow beside Stiles head and reaches between them to grip Stiles’ cock. Stiles moans loudly and arches up. "Shit, mother fucking, hnng.” He stammers a few more nonsensical curses and comes when Derek slams in again, pushing so the pressure of his knot is against his rim.

Stiles head is thrown back on the pillow, his mouth open, panting and his neck glistening with sweat that Derek can’t resist. He gives his cock a few more tugs as Stiles rides it out then braces his hands on either side of Stiles’ head, ducking to kiss and lick at his neck, following Stiles’ adam’s apple as it bobs. He picks up his pace, using just a tad of his preternatural speed now that Stiles is more relaxed around him.

Stiles starts stroking his arms and runs his fingers down Derek’s sides, laughing when the muscles flinch. He knows Derek’s ticklish and if he wasn’t so focused at the moment he’d be squirming away. "Fucker,” Derek says, catching his mouth again. "Stop that.”

"I can’t help it. The big bad alpha’s ticklish.” Stiles smiles against his lips, laughing. "How I am supposed to resist that temptation? It’s too much. I’m only human, after all.”

"Shut up,” Derek sneers. He reaches down to Stiles cock to find he’s hardening again. He gives it a squeeze. "Do it again and no more orgasms.”

"Hey, no fair,” Stiles says, indignant, but it doesn’t really come across like he wants when it turns into a groan.

Stiles clenches around him, grinding down and he gasps, "Oh, fuck, _Stiles._ ”

"Yeah, come on.” Stiles bats his hand away and takes his own cock in hand, allowing Derek to focus on driving into him. Well, focus is a strong word, as Derek is more like a spastic faltering mess at the moment.

"You’re... you’re,” Derek mumbles under Stiles’ ear, nosing his hair, unable—and a little unwilling, if he’s being honest—to verbalize what’s going through his mind: amazing, tight, spectacular, unreal, everything, made for him. Then he’s coming, his knot swelling and pulsing inside of Stiles. He vaguely thinks he hears Stiles gasping and coming again but his head is clouded with pure pleasure and everything else is muted and faraway.

When the fog clears, he’s still trembling and Stiles is caressing his back, his legs splayed on the bed again for comfort. "Mmm,” is all he can say and he rubs his face against Stiles neck, breathing him in.

"Mmhmm,” Stiles replies, sounding just as spent. Derek shifts a little and they both groan when his knot pulls, sparking dulled aftershocks. They won’t come again—Derek’s still coming, actually, but it’s slowing now—but the after effects linger.

He pulls back to look at Stiles, his face is flushed and glistening with sweat, and he’s smiling up at Derek, looking satisfied and one hundred percent less stressed than he was when he first came in. "I’m what?” he asks, smirking.

It takes Derek a moment to realize what he’s referring to and then he has a moment of panic because he literally cannot run away from Stiles at the moment, his knot still pulsing dully in him, and he absolutely cannot say any of the things he was thinking. Stiles doesn’t want anything more from him and he’s okay with that. He doesn’t need anything from Stiles anyway. He’s fine with what they have. Sex is good. Sex with Stiles is more than good. It’s enough. Really.

Thankfully his knot has gone down so he quirks an eyebrow and, with his best cocksure attitude, he smirks and says, "You’re an asshole.” Then he pulls out as quickly and gently as he can to distract Stiles from his obvious avoidance.

Stiles lets out a laugh and moan mixture and stretches out gingerly when Derek plops on his back beside him. They lay together for a while, just breathing. Eventually Stiles sits up and heads to the bathroom. Derek watches him, eyes fixed on Stiles ass, on his flexing muscles. He can just barely see the shine of his come leaking down Stiles’ thigh and his dick twitches. He rolls onto his stomach and is starting to drift when Stiles comes back in.

"Dude, that was great,” he says, pulling his jeans back on, hopping around and looking for his shirt.

Derek grunts his agreement and Stiles leaves with a, "See ya,” hollered from the downstairs. Derek falls asleep trying not to think about how fucked he is.

...  
...

Derek doesn’t see him again for a few weeks, until spring break. Stiles is busy with school and Derek’s been working on new training routines with Isaac and Boyd, and sometimes Scott. Scott attends the same college as Stiles just outside town and they usually come back together and do pack things. Not that Scott nor Stiles are officially pack. They help when needed and sometimes train together. Derek and Scott have come to a sort of truce, where they agree to disagree—on mostly everything—and they try not to lie to each other and withhold useful information. It helps to use Stiles as a mediator, otherwise they just end up yelling at each other for twenty minutes until one of them storms off.

They’re a work in progress.

He’s at the loft with Isaac and Boyd, going over the day’s routine. They’re all going to run the preserve and hit a few spots around town, just to make sure everything’s still good and clear. Things have been settled over the past year and Derek’s determined to keep it that way. Finally, the supernatural crazies have decided to give Beacon Hills a break. Derek likes to think it’s because he’s finally established his pack (kind of) and proved they can hold their own (mostly).

Scott and Stiles show up after a while and he’s stunned when he sees Stiles. He looks terrible. Derek knows he’s been stressed this semester—they text somewhat frequently—but his class load isn’t as bad as his last semester’s, he’s said so himself. This is more than the average college fatigue, that much is obvious. Stiles looks gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes and his face thinner than he’s ever seen it, his cheek bones poking out sharply, like they’ll slice right through the thin, pale skin.

Derek waits until Stiles goes to the kitchen by himself before he says anything. He follows silently and when Stiles is pulling a bottle of water from the fridge, Derek steps a little closer and says, keeping his voice low for privacy, "Are you okay?”

"Yeah, of course,” he lies. Derek just looks at him and raises his eyebrow a little. Stiles looks defeated and Derek absolutely hates it. He’d usually love getting Stiles to cow to him but not when he’s like this. This isn’t fun and games right now. "I don’t know,” he sighs, shifting on his feet. "I feel off. I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep well enough to feel rested in the morning and... I don’t know. It’s just stress.” He waves his hand dismissively, like he actually believes it as truth and not the load of crap it obviously is.

"Looks like more than stress. Have you seen a doctor?” Derek asks, taking a tentative step closer. He smells different too. It’s not strong, he only notices because he’s standing close enough to touch. He thinks about reaching his hand to touch Stiles’ shoulder but doesn’t, unsure if it would help. Stiles’ scent, though—he doesn’t smell sickly, exactly. Derek’s not really sure what it is but he knows it’s different and it’s got to be whatever's happening to him.

"No, it’s fine,” he dismisses again. He’s looking at Derek but his eyes keep shifting down to the bottle in his hands, his fingers picking at the label nervously. "It will be fine,” he corrects.

"I can,” Derek starts, unsure what he should say, or do. He feels like he should do something. He wants to comfort him, make whatever it is stop. Fix it. Break something. Anything to be useful for Stiles. "Uh, help?”

Stiles grins, brightening a little as his shoulders shake with a small laugh. "Wow. That’s so eloquent. Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words, Romeo?” He waves his hand dismissively, still smiling. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. The semester will be over in a few weeks, I’ll come home, sleep for a week and be fit as a fiddle.”

"Okay, just. Let me know if you need anything,” Derek tries to look comforting but he’s pretty sure he just looks pinched. Or constipated.

Stiles steps into his space, ducking his head and playing shy while his body is crowding Derek against the counter. He smiles, coy. "I need to fuck you. How about that?”

Derek’s reaction is cut off when his brain registers what his ears pick up. Stiles’ heart rate sped up as he advanced on Derek, his arousal spiking too but there was something else. There, it happened again.

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh fuck.

Another heart rate, quicker than Stiles but definitely coming from him.

Derek completely freezes and Stiles steps back, noticing the sudden change, his brow drawn in concern. "Derek? What is it?”

Fuck. "Uh...” is literally the only sound he can force out of his constricted throat. Holy fuck.

The rest of the guys appear from across the kitchen island. "Derek?" Isaac asks, looking as concerned as Stiles. Stiles glances between them and Derek, looking a little panicked, and a little guilty, like he did something he didn’t realize. No, actually, Derek was the one who did something without meaning to. Biggest understatement of the century. Jesus.

"What's wrong?" Boyd asks next. "Your heart is off the charts. What's going on?"

"Uh…" he looks between them all, still frozen in place. He can't make his body function. His brain is offline. This isn't happening. He can't… how is he supposed to deal with this? He can't. So he does the only thing he can do. He flees.

He’s already out of the apartment and down the hall to the staircase leading to the lobby when Stiles yells after him, "Where the fuck are you going?"

...  
...

"So, you want to tell me why Scott can hear _two_ heartbeats coming from me?”

Derek stops, spoonful of cereal frozen mid-air, and turns to look at Stiles, who just stormed through his door three days after Derek’s tiny meltdown. To say he looks angry is an understatement. He’s still unwell, like the other day, but his eyes are frantic and his face is flushed like he just ran up the three flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. His heart rate is... well, no. Derek’s not going to listen to that right now. Nope.

"Well?” Stiles insists again. "This is what freaked you out the other day, isn’t it?” Derek places his spoon down and leans back in his chair, suddenly not so hungry for cheerios. "I swear to god, Derek, if you don’t fucking answer me right now, I will throw all of your leather jackets in a wood chipper."

Derek starts to raise his eyebrow but stops when Stiles points at him—emphatically—and simply says, "Don’t.” Then he pauses. "Answer the question.”

Derek sighs. "Yes.”

Stiles deflates like a balloon that’s been popped, letting out a ragged breath, like Derek just confirmed his death sentence. Which, he supposes he has, in a way. He closes his eyes and takes five deep breaths, and Derek’s worried he’s going to collapse when he starts to sway a little. But then he straightens, pulling his shoulders back. Stiles locks eyes with him and, oh yeah, he’s angry. Really angry. "This is bullshit!"

Derek’s not sure what to say, not sure he could actually say anything to make this better or to even explain it. "I’m sorry,” he offers.

"You’re sorry?” Stiles scoffs, pulling back a little with wide eyes. "You damn well better be.” He runs his hands through his hair and yanks on the ends, making it stick out crazily. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? This isn’t even possible! How does this even... I mean. What. The. Fuck.”

"I don’t know.” Derek knows he’s not being helpful but he honestly isn’t sure what else to say. This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen. He’s never heard of anything like this.

"That’s it?” Stiles says, incredulous. "That’s all you have to say?”

"I don’t know, Stiles. It's not supposed to be possible.”

Stiles walks over to the dining table and sits across from him. He doesn’t reek of anger so much as resignation now. "Is there any other explanation? Maybe... I don’t know. Could I have turned into a Time Lord?”

"A what?” Derek asks.

"Doctor Who. Netflix, Derek, we’ve talked about this.” Stiles shakes his head, putting it into his hands. "Just. Anything else. Please.”

"I don’t know what to tell you.” He’s trying to sound comforting but he knows he’s not. Nothing about this is comforting.

Stiles looks up, angry again, like he’s just thought of something sour. "You didn’t...” He stops to take a breath. "You didn’t know, did you?”

"Jesus, Stiles. No.” He moves to reach for Stiles, to reassure him, but Stiles flinches, sitting back in the chair and out of Derek’s reach. Derek really can’t fault him for that, though. "I mean, knotting-” Stiles jerks narrowing eyes to Derek at the word, "-is about breeding but not between males. I didn’t think-”

Stiles looks startled, and pushes back from the table. "What? Tell me you didn’t know it was a possibility,” he demands.

"It's not a possibility!" Derek all but shouts. He knows he's in no place to be angry with Stiles but he's frustrated. Things were finally starting to go well for him, for the pack, and now he's gone and fucked it up again. Literally. "At least it shouldn't be," he adds, sounding defeated, which he is.

Stiles hunches over and bangs his head against the table with a drawn out exasperated, "Ugh." After a few silent minutes, Stiles says, with his head now pillowed in his arms, "Okay, is there anyone we can talk to about this who might be remotely helpful?"

"Deaton?" Derek suggests.

"I said 'helpful', not 'cryptic'."

"I don-"

"Say 'I don't know' one more time, Derek, and I swear to god I'll go straight to the hardware store and buy that nice, shiny wood chipper," Stiles says, sitting up just to move his head into his hands, resting his elbows on the table. Derek's never seen him look so exhausted.

"I’ll figure it out,” Derek says, aiming for reassuring. It doesn’t work. "I can... There’s a few contacts I can try for information.”

"Yeah?" Stiles lifts his head up, finally looking him in the eyes. Derek nods. "Find out how to make it go away.”

Derek stares at him. He did expect. But no, of course Stiles wouldn’t want. _He_ doesn’t even want. Jesus, this is all too much. He’s barely got a functioning pack. He’s barely functioning himself. How are they supposed to raise a... "Right,” he says with a curt nod. "Of course.”

Stiles’ brows are drawn and he’s looking at Derek curiously. "You don’t want... I mean, you know this is insane, right? You can’t possibly want me to have your baby, can you?”

"No,” Derek says a little too quickly. "I mean. Fuck, I don’t know, Stiles. It’s a pack thing.”

Stiles’ eyebrows go up. He’s angry again. "So I’m supposed to have your little wolf cub out of pack loyalty? Is that honestly what you’re going with?”

"No! I’m not saying that.” He’s really messing this up worse than he already has. "You can do whatever you want.”

"Fuck yes, I can,” Stiles interjects.

"I was surprised, is all. There’s a lot of instinct that comes with pack and I... nevermind.” He’s not sure he can explain it to Stiles. His own packmates might not even understand the instinct to cultivate a pack. They’re not Alphas. He sighs. "Forget what I said. I’m sorry about all of this, honestly. I’ll find out whatever I can and I’ll ask about that.”

Stiles watches him for a moment before speaking. "Thank you.” He must see something in Derek’s face because he adds, "Listen Derek, I get that this could be a big deal for you because of werewolf... things, but you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from.”

"I do, I swear. I would never ask you to do something like this.” He leaves off the _for me_.

...  
...

There's a pack a couple of hours north of Beacon Hills: the Harrison pack. They were, for lack of a better word, allies with his family. Both peaceful packs that mostly kept to their own vast woodlands. When his family was killed, the Harrison’s had offered he and Laura a sanctuary, to be their own sub-pack of theirs, so to speak. It was a nice idea, to have a safe place to grieve, to get their heads on straight and a place where Laura could learn about being an alpha. They considered it briefly but ultimately decided to get as far away from home as possible. He wishes now they had gone, for even a little while.

There’s so much he doesn’t know about being an alpha, or hell, even about his own kind.

It's probably not the best idea—not that he ever has ideas that could be referred to as 'best’—but he decides to contact them. Their alpha, Sherice, was older than his mother but he remembers her as warm and friendly from the few times their families connected. He calls the number scrawled down in Laura’s old journal.

After the fire, she took to writing down everything they knew—names, locations and numbers of other packs, account numbers, birthdays, anything they might need to know. Their mother had an incredible memory, she never forgot a birthday or anniversary and always sent a card. They wanted to preserve that.

Derek has looked at the journal a total of once since he returned to Beach Hills. He found it with Laura’s things, at the old house, and the last entry was some of the facts she’d learned about the fire, the research that led her to her death. He’s finally picked it up again after his conversation with Stiles.

It’s his responsibility to find some answers for Stiles and it’s the only place he can think to start.

He calls the number listed in the journal and has to talk to three people before he gets Sherice on the phone. He apologizes for the bother and explains the _situation_.

The line is silent for a bloated twenty seconds before she sighs, "Oh honey, what a mess you’ve made.”

Story of his life.

"Have you ever heard of this before?” he asks. He’s pacing in front of the large windows of the loft. The sun’s shining on him and he wishes the windows weren’t so big, so he could blot out the stupid bright sun with curtains.

"There are stories. It’s incredibly rare but there have been a few instances, I believe. Not in many years, though.” Her voice reeks of sympathy and Derek’s pinching the bridge of his nose so hard he thinks he might be giving himself a headache. "Several things have to be in alignment for it to occur.”

Fuck his life. Seriously. "Such as?”

"I’m not an expert but from what I understand, for conception to take place within a male, the mating has to happen on a blue moon and your mate would have to be a mage.”

He’s not sure he can process that; so many of those words are breaking his brain. Conception. Mate. Mage. _Mate_. Jesus H. Christ. Stiles isn’t his mate. They’re just... they don’t. They’re just fucking around. Stiles doesn’t even like him. Okay, that’s not entirely true but not the sort of like—affection, whatever—mates would have.

"Derek?” Sherice says over the line.

He comes back to himself. "Uh. Yeah, thank you.”

"Last month,” she says, like it’s supposed to mean something, and when he doesn’t say anything she continues. "The blue moon?”

"Oh.” He’s not doing a very good job of sounding like a competent alpha at the moment. He forces himself to sit down on the couch and focus on the conversation. "Right, yes. That’s when we...” He sighs. "I didn’t know it was even possible,” he says, mostly to himself.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment and when she does, she sounds so much like his mother when she comforted him as a child. Sincere and comforting and fiercely protective. He always felt so safe with her. He hasn’t felt that way in a long time. "Honey, how would you have.” It’s not a question.

"Um, he,” he clears his throat at the thought, "doesn’t look well. Is it safe for him?”

"His magic should allow it and protect his physical body.”

"I’m not sure he knows he’s a mage.” There were a few times, back when he was in high school, when Stiles used mountain ash successfully but Derek’s not aware of Stiles practicing.

"Oh. That could present a problem,” says Sherice, and Derek really doesn’t like the way this conversation has gone at all.

...  
...

Derek is restless so he decides to run to Stiles’ house instead of drive. He needs to burn off some of this nervous energy. He’s not looking forward to telling Stiles about his conversation with Sherice. He already knows Stiles isn’t going to like what she had to say.

The sun is just setting as he reaches the Stilinski house and Stiles’ Jeep is alone in the driveway. Derek’s never been more glad to see the Sheriff isn’t home. This is not news he’s looking forward to sharing with him. Congratulations, I knocked up your _son_!

Stiles calls for him to come in when he knocks on the front door. He finds Stiles sitting at the kitchen table, staring morosely at a plate of eggs. He doesn’t look any better. If anything, he looks worse.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks. Stiles glares at him. “Uh, morning sickness?” he offers.

“Har har.” Stiles does not think it’s funny. “I want to eat them. I make excellent fried eggs, Derek.”

“So eat them?” Stiles glares again. “Or don’t?” He’s sure there’s nothing he can say that will help but he thinks he’s supposed to try.

“It’s like, I don’t feel hungry but I know I have to eat because if I don’t, I’ll feel sick. But I don’t actually want to eat them, even though I do.”

Derek’s not sure what to say to that so he doesn’t say anything at all. He sits across from Stiles and watches him sigh and grumble to himself as he picks at the eggs, taking small, cautious bites. He looks physically pained, eating them.

“What’d you find out?” Stiles asks around a bite.

Derek steels himself, because since their conversation, he’s been trying to figure out how to tell Stiles what he’d gathered from Sherice without freaking him out. He’s already decided that option definitely doesn’t include him mentioning how they’re apparently mates. He hesitates. “The reason you’re...” He can’t bring himself to say ‘pregnant’. He just can’t. The look Stiles gives him suggests that he knows exactly what he is, anyway. “There was a... confluence of events.”

“Now is not the time to be cagey,” Stiles says, fixing him with a hard look.

Derek winces, and nods. It’s better just to get this over with. “Last month, there were two full moons, remember?”

“The blue moon,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I was even talking to Scott about that the day before. I wondered what it was like for you guys. If you felt the shift like any other full moon or if it was different. I should’ve fucking known.”

“It’s not just that,” Derek continues. “It was the blue moon, combined with what we are.”

“Really fucking stupid?” Stiles supplies. “Or, one of us is.”

Derek ignores that, mostly because he agrees. “I’m the Alpha”—Stiles rolls his eyes—“and you’re a mage.”

Stiles’ head pops up, eyes locking on Derek’s with an intensity that has Derek’s chest clenching. “A mage? As in magic? I’m magic?”

“I thought you already knew that,” Derek says. “I thought Deaton... with the mountain ash?”

“Deaton said I could be a ‘spark’, whatever the fuck that means. Sifting some ash around doesn’t mean I’m magic. It didn’t feel like anything other than an adrenaline rush. I mean, I’m not... I don’t see how.” He pushes his plate away and puts his head in his hands with an exhausted groan. Derek hates the sound.

“I don’t know what being magic is supposed to feel like,” Derek says cautiously, fingers itching to reach out and touch Stiles and comfort him in some way. He puts his hands under the table instead.

“That’s because you don’t know anything,” Stiles mutters into his hands, and Derek sighs, but carries on.

“But because everything came together that night, that’s why you’re... You know.”

“Trust me, I know,” Stiles sighs, dropping his hands onto the table to look at Derek. He looks like he’s been run ragged—there are circles around his eyes now that Derek’s looking closer, and it’s the first time that Derek can remember him not teeming with energy. All of that worries him.

“It’s protected,” Derek says, watching Stiles’ eyebrows rise up in confusion.

“Try that again in human terms, wolf boy.”

“It’s protected,” Derek says again, slower, hoping that Stiles can understand what he’s saying without him having to spell it out. It seems he’s out of luck on that front. “You shouldn’t be pregnant—” there, he said it "—but you are, because of your magic and because of mine. The two combined are what makes it possible at all.” He pauses, hating that he has to say it, that he can’t give Stiles what he wants. “And it makes it impossible to stop it.”

“Stop it?”

“It’s the first born of an Alpha.” Derek wants to shrivel up and die. “Werewolves have a lot of powerful magic, even if we can’t consciously use it, like you. That magic is protecting the _baby_ —” he can’t help the way he whispers the word “—until birth, then it comes under the protection of the Alpha and pack.”

“Are you kidding?” He doesn’t look mad but Derek can feel the anger beginning to vibrate off him.

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head and staring at a knick in the table. He can’t look Stiles in the eye anymore. “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

“And I’m supposed to just go along with this?” He sounds angry now. “I don’t get a choice? What’s done is done and that’s it?”

Derek doesn’t know how to answer that, so he keeps his eyes downcast.

“That’s not good enough,” Stiles snaps. “If we’re both ‘magic’, there’s got to be some way to reverse this. If your contacts know how this happened, they must know a way to reverse it.”

“It’s old magic,” Derek says, quietly. “If there was ever a reversal, and I’m not saying there was, it was forgotten a few hundred years ago, Stiles.” He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Most Alphas would have known about the blue moon and wouldn’t have done it unless they were... sure.”

“But you didn’t know,” Stiles says, flatly. He laughs, and Derek’s head snaps up to look at him at the sound. Stiles looks close to having a full on panic attack. “Because you’re the worst fucking Alpha ever. Jesus. This isn’t happening.” He laughs again, hiccuping on the noise. “I’m graduating next year, I’m not having a were-baby. This just, no. No.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, reaching out to put his hand on his arm but Stiles pulls back, sharply.

“Don’t,” his voice is rough, tinged with panic. “I... uh—” he swallows and clears his throat, breath too quick, “—you should leave now.”

“We can figure this out.” He wants to reassure Stiles but he knows it’s not something he can promise. “We can—”

“Just go, Derek.” Stiles is still vibrating with an angry energy but his voice has gone soft and too quiet.

Derek lets out a shaky breath and nods. He rises but stays there for another moment, reaching for anything else he can say to make this a little less worse for Stiles, even though he knows there’s nothing. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and he does as Stiles asks and leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

“—and then Allison said we have to go bowling with Lydia and her new boyfriend.” 

Stiles nods weakly to the story when he thinks he’s supposed to, trudging along beside Scott through campus. He’s not entirely certain why he’s agreed to the pick-up game at all, and he’s regretting it more with each step toward the lacrosse field, especially as he swears his equipment is getting heavier in his hands. But it sounded fun when Isaac texted him that morning, or at least, as much fun as anything had sounded in days. And besides, he’s pretty sure Scott was about half a day away from just physically dragging him out of bed if he didn’t start doing something that wasn’t go to class or sleep.

“Are you even listening to me, dude?” Scott asks, bumping their shoulders and Stiles stumbles, barely catching himself in time. “Shit, sorry,” Scott says, grabbing his arm and smiling sheepishly. “Sometimes I forget my own strength.”

Stiles doesn’t think his lack of focus this week has anything to do with Scott’s physicality. He plasters on a smile he’s pretty sure Scott knows is fake—but he has to try—and waves his hand, dismissively. “Nah, man, you know me and gravity have a tumultuous relationship.”

Scott gives him a tentative smile, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” One of the greatest things about their relationship is that he can lie to Scott's face and he won’t call him on it. “My econ project is killing me, is all.”

Scott doesn’t look at all convinced but he nods anyway and Stiles couldn’t be more grateful for his friendship in that moment. He knows Scott knows. Scott has literally pointed out a pregnant girl in their class before who did not look pregnant in the slightest. He knew just from the heartbeat, hell, maybe even before she knew.

Scott’s mentioned it a total of once, when he first heard the other heartbeat. They were playing _Call of Duty_ and he paused the game suddenly, looking at Stiles’ chest, perplexed. Stiles didn’t let him get past the “two heartbeats” before he was babbling excuses and running out the door to go confront Derek.

So Scott knows. He’s just letting them both pretend Stiles isn’t fucking _pregnant_ , and for that, Stiles is eternally grateful.

“Could be worse,” Scott says after a moment, giving him a soft smile. “You could have to go bowling with _Tad_.”

Stiles nods seriously. “That’s a fate worse than death, my friend.”

Scott laughs, and Stiles feels a little more normal at that sound than he has all week.

When they get to the field, Stiles drops his equipment into the grass, reaching up to rub at his shoulders. He feels sore all over, like he’s just done an intense workout—which is strange, because he and Scott have walked the mile from their apartment to this field at least a hundred times over the last three years. Apparently laying in bed all week and wishing the world would swallow him whole has done nothing good for his stamina.

“You look like crap,” Isaac says, clapping him on the back. He sniffs at him, while Stiles recoils, trying to brush him off.

“How many times do we have to go over this?” Stiles asks, as he sits in the grass. It has the added benefit of getting him out of Isaac’s direct range of smell, but mostly he’s just exhausted and this way, he can sit for a moment to pull on his gloves without anyone questioning it. He really should have stretched before leaving this morning. “No smelling me,” he tells Isaac before raising his voice. “That goes for all of you. Stiles is a Sniff-Free Zone, do you hear me?”

The non-werewolves who have shown up for the game look at him like he might be insane, but Stiles is used to that. He ignores them, as well as Isaac, who’s busy laughing behind his hands.

It takes him a good ten minutes to get into the swing of the game but it does make him feel better. His adrenaline is pumping and it feels amazing to suck in a large lungful of the clean afternoon air. He even gets in a few good passes to Scott before it all goes downhill.

He's got the ball in the net of his stick and he's just maneuvered around another player and is running down the edge of the field toward the goal. He's excited about the possibility of finally getting a goal when out of nowhere Isaac slams into him, his broad, unpadded shoulders colliding sharply into his chest and knocking him back onto his ass.

He hears Scott yell from down the field and he's sure Isaac is hovering over him but he can't actually see him because he's got his eyes screwed shut with bright white flashes of pain sparking behind his lids. Pain bursts out from where they impacted and has him curling into himself and onto his side.

"Stiles, come on," Isaac says, sounding closer now, like he's crouching beside him. "I barely hit you."

He's been knocked down playing lacrosse plenty of times and he can usually brush it off fine but this is different. It feels like the impact jarred something loose and a well of _pain_ is spilling out into his veins.

"Stiles?" Scott's there now with a warm hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Stiles groans, "Yeah," but he doesn't sound very convincing. He moves to get up and a wave of dizziness rolls over him, making his stomach lurch. He manages to sit partially up before he leans over and pukes.

"Sorry, dude." Isaac sounds remorseful and Stiles might try to reassure him that he really didn’t do anything wrong but he's a little busy gasping for a breath between heaves. "I didn't use my strength, I swear," he says quietly so the other players won't hear.

Stiles waves his hand as if to say 'don’t worry about it, it's not you, I'm carrying your Alpha’s werewolf cub'. He'd laugh if he wasn't in so much pain.

Thankfully Scott's there to talk for him. "It's okay, Isaac. He hasn't been feeling well the past few days. I think he's got a bug." Stiles snorts and promptly chokes on the bile in his throat. Scott gives his back a reassuring rub and grips his bicep to help him stand up. "I'll get him back to our place. He just needs some rest," Scott says, squeezes his arm and gives a tug up.

Stiles follows orders and lets Scott pull him up, and if he lets Scott keep him upright when his legs threaten to give out from under him, well, no one else has to know.

He tries for a grin and says, "Sorry guys, uh... watch your step." He laughs weakly, gesturing to the spot on the grass where he got sick.

Scott keeps his arm firmly around Stiles, helping to support him, as they head off the field. It’s going to be a long, slow process to get them back to the apartment—which might be why once they hit campus, Scott helps lower Stiles onto a bench and sits beside him.

“Stiles,” Scott says, and then just looks at him.

“Just a bug, right?” Stiles tries, but Scott’s brows are creased in concern now, and he already knows he’s not going to get off that easy. His shoulders sag. “Or not.”

“This is about you being...” Scott waves his hand uncertainly in the air, which is a pretty accurate representation of Stiles’ own thoughts on the situation. “Right?”

Stiles blows out a breath, wiping the back of his hand on his forehead. He’s not drenched in sweat, but he’s not far off. This is ridiculous. “Yeah, Scott. It’s about me being _pregnant_.”

“Dude,” Scott says, and his voice is somewhere between amazed and sympathetic. He’s quiet for a minute, then the curiosity takes over, and he turns full-body to face Stiles again. “How did that even happen?”

“Ask the fucking Alpha.”

Scott’s nose wrinkles a little—though whether it’s the idea of Stiles and Derek having sex, or of Scott asking Derek about knocking up _a guy_ , is anyone’s guess.

“I can’t get pregnant, right?” Scott asks after a moment, and Stiles fixes him with a hard look. Scott nods, seeming to understand that now is not the time for that particular line of questioning. "So, what happens now?”

"Fuck if I know," he says with a sad little laugh.

"Are you... uh, going to keep it?"

Stiles sighs. "Apparently I don't have a choice."

Scott looks horrified and he scoffs, "What? Of course you do! If Derek said-"

"No," he cuts him off. He feels a swell of pride that Scott is on his side—always—defending and fighting for him. "It's not him. There isn't anything we can do. It's a magic alpha spawn, evidently."

Scott watches him for a bit. He nods. "Okay. I can... I could talk to Deaton, find out if he knows a way?"

Stiles jerks his head back and forth so fast he feels sick again. He closes his eyes to let the campus stop tilting before he dares to open his mouth, fearful of what's left in his stomach leaving him. Finally he looks back at Scott's concerned face. "Scott, buddy, you can't tell anyone. I'm not joking. You can't even tell Allison. I'm sorry, I know you two are secret-free but please, _please_ keep this one for me."

Scott hesitates, and the worried look on his face hasn’t changed at all. “You went down pretty hard on the field,” he says carefully, like he’s still trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

“It’s just normal ‘I’m pregnant with a werewolf’ stuff,” Stiles assures him, but he has no idea if that’s true or not. It must be, though. He knows that he’s not built for, well, babies, but Derek had said that his magic was protecting them. So he just has to put up with this for another seven months (and he hopes to god that this pregnancy is just nine months, as there’s not exactly a werewolf pregnancy handbook for him to peruse for facts and tips).

Scott studies him, but eventually seems to accept it—or at least to return to their former policy of ignoring uncomfortable things for Stiles’ sanity. “I won’t tell Allison,” he says, leaning against Stiles. “But you have to promise you’ll tell me if you need help. With anything. Even kicking Derek’s ass. Especially if you need help kicking Derek’s ass.”

“If you’re trying to defend my honor, I’d say it’s really too late for that,” Stiles says, then nods. “But I promise too.”

...  
...

Hours later he’s curled up under a blanket on his bed watching reruns of _Firefly_ on the Science channel, and seriously regretting all of his life decisions. Werewolf pregnancy being number one, no doubt, but he really needs to reevaluate the little things like getting out of bed to play sports with his friends. Why did he think that would be fun? Because it wasn’t. Or, it was, until he _fell down_ and ended up feeling like he’s just done a triathlon. He’s sore and nauseous with a bone deep exhaustion to top it off.

He misses bits of the episode because he keeps nodding off and he’s about to again when the sounds of very familiar raised voices coming from the living room wake him up fully.

Stiles groans. If he were a better friend, or at least one whose muscles weren’t so stiff, he’d wander into the other room to see what the commotion is about. But Scott is a werewolf who can mostly take care of himself, and Stiles wants to make sure there’s some sort of life or death danger, or at least the threat of someone losing a limb, before he gets out of bed. He keeps his eyes closed, straining to hear.

“You really need to get out.” That’s definitely Scott’s voice, and he sounds pissed. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I’m not leaving,” someone else says, and _fuck_ , Stiles is pretty sure that’s Derek. He presses his face into his pillow, and he’d scream into it if he actually had the energy.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” Scott says, and Stiles doesn’t have to see him to know he’s got his claws and fangs out. And if he does, Derek probably does too.

Stiles carries out a silent debate with himself over the pros and cons of letting Derek and Scott rip each other to shreds over his dignity in the next room, but eventually, friendship wins out. He drags himself out of bed and wanders into the living room, where, sure enough, Scott and Derek are in defensive poses, teeth bared and growling at each other, low and dark.

“Hello, how nice of you to stop by,” Stiles says from the hallway, keeping his tone flat. “Now get out.”

Derek shifts back instantly at the sight of him, his face fighting its anger with Scott and relief at seeing Stiles. Relief wins out and he steps around Scott with a little shoulder shove. “Isaac told me what happened today.”

Stiles groans, because no. He crosses his arms over his chest, aiming for defiant but he has to lean against the wall to prevent falling over so it doesn’t really come across. “Seriously? You came to check up on me?”

“He said you looked like you were in serious pain.” Derek steps closer, his eyes traveling across Stiles’ body, checking for injuries. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay, Derek,” Stiles says, voice rising to a yell. It sounds rough, though, and he knows from the wince Derek gives that he’s not helping to ease Derek’s concern. Not that he’s trying to. “I’m really not okay and I’m pretty sure I won’t be until this mess is over with, so why don’t you be a good baby-daddy and leave me the fuck alone.”

He moves back into his room and slams the door behind him, barely making it to his bed before his muscles give out completely. He lies on his stomach, exactly where he fell, until the muffled voices stop and the sound of their apartment door opens and closes again. He lets out a frustrated sigh. Hopefully now he can at least get some sleep.

Like most of his hopes and dreams lately, it’s short-lived. Scott enters the room a few minutes later, but he’s smart enough to come with a peace offering: pop tarts.

“He’s gone,” Scott says, sitting on the edge of the bed beside Stiles. He puts one of the pop tarts on Stiles’ chest when he rolls over but Stiles makes no move for it.

“Thanks, buddy.” He takes in a deep breath, trying to tamp down some of his anger and frustration. “He’s an asshole.”

Scott nods along, but he’s silent for too long, and Stiles is already expecting some version of what comes next. “I didn’t let him in because I could tell earlier you were mad at him, but... He seemed worried. He said you weren’t answering his calls.”

“Because he’s an asshole,” Stiles repeats, more emphatically.

“I think he’s trying to help. I mean, he’s Derek, so he’s terrible at it, but it’s good he’s trying, right?”

“Not that it’ll do any good. He’s done enough.”

“Do you think he meant for this to happen?” Scott asks, horrified.

“No, he’s just a big idiot.” Stiles forces a bite of pop tart down and thankfully his stomach accepts it without protest. “He found out later a lot of things have to be in alignment for it to even happen. So I basically won the Werewolf Baby Lottery.”

“What happened, exactly?” Scott sounds nervous. “You guys didn’t—um, use protection?”

“No,” Stiles sighs. “Don’t give me that look, Scott. You guys can’t carry diseases and we really didn’t think we had to worry about _this_.” He gestures to his general stomach region, spraying crumbs over his bed. “You know damn well you wouldn’t either if you didn’t have to worry about getting Allison pregnant.”

Scott has the decency to look sheepish because he knows Stiles is right. “Okay, so,” Scott says slowly, “neither of you wanted to use protection, and Derek didn’t know you could get pregnant. But you’re mad at Derek. Do I have all that right?”

“Do you have a point?” Stiles asks, but Scott is staring at him.

When Scott’s point finally does dawn on him, Stiles blames it on what he’s heard his aunt refer to as pregnancy brain, because seriously, there’s no reason Scott should be making logical sense when Stiles isn’t. “He should have known!” Stiles tries to defend, and Scott shrugs.

“You’re dating Derek Hale. What were you really expecting?”

“We weren’t dating,” Stiles mutters, turning his head to stare at the ceiling rather than at Scott. “And we sure as hell aren’t now.”

“Was it just a one time thing?” Scott asks, making Stiles scowl, because he’s pretty sure Scott already knows the answer. If Derek’s been able to smell when Stiles has had sex with someone else, he’s positive the werewolf he’s sharing close, cramped quarters with knows just how much he was sleeping with Derek.

“You know it wasn’t.”

Scott’s silent for a while. Stiles finishes his pop tart and shimmies under the covers again. “What are you going to do?” Scott asks, finally.

“Right now? I’m going to sleep. And tomorrow I’m going to class and I’m going to finish this semester and I’m not going to think about Derek or Derek’s stupid baby.”

Scott smiles and it eases some of the tension building into a headache against his skull. At least he has Scott, who will do whatever necessary to help him. Stiles thinks about how good of a friend Scott is as he falls asleep.

The next day after he gets back from an exhausting day of one whole class, he thinks about how he’s going to murder Scott, who hands him a stack of mail and _What to Expect While You’re Expecting_ , looking completely sincere.

...  
...

He’s laying on his bed, watching the clock blink 5:00 a.m. at him. He hasn’t been able to sleep more than a few thirty minute stretches all night. He’s having freaky nightmares about babies and births and werewolf cubs and he’s just really not in a place to deal with this right now. The semester is over and he was really looking forward to spending his last summer as a college student sitting around at home and doing absolutely nothing besides getting shitfaced and playing video games with Scott into the wee hours of the morning. Apparently that’s too much to ask, though, because he had to go and have sex and ruin his life.

His life has turned into every overdramatic high school PSA, just to spite him.

He rolls over and smushes his face into the pillow with a groan. Maybe he should just get up now and make breakfast for his Dad before his shift. He’s been home a week but they still haven’t spent much time together. Their relationship could be better, but it’s not as strained as it was in high school. His Dad’s recently acquired knowledge of werewolves helps but it also doesn’t erase nearly five years of blatant lies.

Or that he’s having to lie all over again.

His ever present quest to be a better son—minus, or maybe because of, the part about him being knocked up—has him pushing out of bed, ignoring the creaks in his joints to go downstairs and start a healthy breakfast.

He’s not quite awake as he starts on the egg white omelettes. His dad has been pushing him to get a part time job, especially with graduation looming on the horizon, and the Stiles of a few months ago would have hemmed and hawed about it but ultimately done it, while still staying up until 3 in the morning every night without batting an eye. Now, he barely has the energy it requires to go grocery shopping. There will be no summer job. There will be no fun of any kind, it seems.

By the time his dad wanders in, dressed in his uniform already but clearly needing coffee, Stiles is plating the omelettes. “Morning, kiddo,” his dad mumbles, going for what Stiles suspects he thinks is friendly. He’s pretty far off his mark.

“There’s coffee,” Stiles says, even if the smell has his wrinkling his nose. “And omelettes. Sit.”

It takes half a cup of coffee before John finally stops looking so bleary-eyed and lets his gaze settle on Stiles, examining him. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Yeah,” he lies, “I mean, a little. I was up playing WoW for a while. Lost track of time.” The problem with lying to his dad for years and his dad eventually finding out about all the lies, is it makes him hyper aware of new lies. Like right now, John's looking at him and Stiles knows he knows Stiles is lying. He doesn’t say anything, though, just looks a little sadder and a lot more concerned.

John settles at the table and starts to eat. Stiles makes a show of it, pushing his food around, only taking small bites; his appetite is worse now, in that he doesn’t have one.

“Are you feeling all right?” John asks, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Yeah, I’m fine. A little tired.”

John sets his mug down with a little too much force and Stiles can’t help but flinch in his seat. “Try again,” John says in his stern Sheriff/Father voice.

Years of practice has only made Stiles slightly less helpless to answer that voice truthfully. He sighs, “No, I guess I don’t feel that good.”

His Dad’s face changes instantly, from nearly angry at being lied at to parental concern. “Stay off your games and get some rest today. I’ll bring home some soup from the diner.”

Stiles grins and salutes. “Aye aye, Captain.”

It has the desired effect of making his dad smile, some of the tension bleeding out of his posture. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but it’s fond.

When Scott had asked him if he planned on telling his dad about his _situation_ , Stiles had nearly had a panic attack. For the first time in a long time, he feels like they’re finding their footing again at being father and son. He’s got absolutely zero intention of upsetting that delicate balance by telling his dad he’s been having premarital sex with a werewolf—with _Derek_ —let alone that he’s having Derek’s illegitimate werewolf child, through _magic_.

He can picture his dad’s face, twisted somewhere between horror and confusion—he’d seen it there the first time he’d told him about werewolves, and before that, when the doctors had told them Mom had passed away—and Stiles never intends to be the reason he looks like that. Never.

It eases something in his chest when his dad smiles at him instead, oblivious, and ruffles his hair before standing. “I should get going. I mean it, take it easy today.”

“I packed you lunch,” Stiles says, eyeing his father until John huffs, but grabs the brown bag off the counter. “I will know if you don’t eat the salad.”

“Just who’s the parent here?” he asks, smiling as he heads for the door.

Stiles laughs nervously, bordering on hysteria.

...  
...

Pregnancy, and the lack of a will and energy to ever get out of bed, has not done wonders for Stiles’ social life. He’s got text messages from Allison and Isaac asking if he’s still alive, and he intends to answer them, eventually, like maybe in a week or two. But it does mean he’s been able to catch up on a lot of TV.

He thinks his dad would be proud of him for looking on the bright side of things for a change.

He’s been lying camped out in front of the TV watching _Breaking Bad_ for the five hours since his dad left for his shift, trying to ignore the searing pain that’s been spreading through his body all day. It’s not the first time this has happened, and Stiles has learned by now that if he ignores it long enough, it won’t go away—but it will lessen.

Stiles has almost drifted off to sleep when he hears footsteps behind the couch, which is very not okay, because his dad is definitely at work, and the only other person with a key is Scott, who couldn’t sneak up on anyone if he tried. His whole body goes stiff and on high alert, his heart rate skyrocketing in his chest. But he’s had enough survival training in his lifetime that he reaches for the remote control—the only thing in his reach—and chucks it toward where the sound had come from, intending to make a run for it, pain be damned.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, suddenly filling his peripheral vision and depositing the remote control which he’d caught back in Stiles’ lap in one fluid motion.

“Holy god,” Stiles all but screeches, jumping in his seat and flailing wildly while trying to catch the remote.

As soon as his initial surprise wears off, the pain is back and forcing him to slump back into the couch with a moan. Derek’s around the couch in an instant, crouching in front of him, face drawn in worry.

“Are you okay?”

Stiles ignores him. “What is wrong with you? You can’t use the doorbell? Jesus Christ.”

“It was unlocked.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course you think that means you can just come inside, Creepy Brewster.”

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, his nostrils flaring slightly like he’s scenting him. Stiles takes a sick pleasure in the fact that he hasn’t exactly bathed in several days and it’s probably not pleasant to Derek’s delicate nose. “You smell worse.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re getting worse, aren’t you?”

Stiles gives him a look and waves his hand, as if to say ‘obviously’.

“Your magic is supposed to protect you.” Derek looks confused.

“Well, it’s doing a shitty job,” Stiles retorts, feeling the little energy he had from the surprise drain out again.

Derek looks down and it’s only then that Stiles notices the hands resting on his knees. Derek removes them when Stiles shifts, and he isn’t about to tell him to put them back, no matter how warm and comforting they felt.

Derek moves to sit in the chair nearby. “I thought maybe it would be automatic. The instinct to protect the baby, and you.” He rubs a hand down his face and sighs. “There’s another pack,” he says, and has to wave Stiles off, the words putting him on alert. “They’re allies. Or they were, with my family. It’s where I found out the information about all of this.”

“Oh,” is all Stiles can think of to say. He wasn’t expecting that.

“Sherice, their Alpha, said if you needed help or answers, you could visit.”

 

Stiles eyebrows lift up because what? “What? Why didn’t you say that before?”

“You haven’t given me much of a chance to say anything,” Derek says, and Stiles feels a small, very small, pang of guilt at that. “You could try answering your phone,” Derek huffs a little, before deflating. “Besides, I thought your magic would work. I didn't want to bother you with one more thing."

"Once again, your lack of sharing has helped our situation. Oh, wait, it hasn't." Stiles knows he's being too hard on Derek. He's being more of an ass than strictly necessary but he's weary and he feels like he's at loose ends. His world is very quickly spiraling out of control and it feels too similar to the period of time before his mom died and that's more than enough to make him lose all patience and understanding.

"Stiles," Derek says, and he sounds muffled. Stiles opens his eyes and realizes he was falling asleep in the middle of their conversation. Derek looks stricken. "I came by because I talked to Sherice again, told her your magic doesn't seem to be working. She invited us to visit, so they can help teach you to harness your power."

Stiles barks a short, hard laugh. Harness his power? His life just gets more and more ridiculous. Fucking werewolves.

"What good would that do?" he asks eventually.

"Fuck, Stiles, have you even looked at yourself lately? You look like you're on the verge of death." His words are angry but his voice is soft. He sounds scared. "You're only a few months into it. You really think you can keep going like this without the worst happening?"

“I’m a guy,” Stiles says through gritted teeth, “and I’m pregnant. You really think this is supposed to be easy?”

Derek hesitates. “I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be this bad though.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, ignoring the look Derek gives him at that. “And it still doesn’t sound like you know anything. What do you actually know about this other pack?”

“We were close, when I was younger.”

“Yeah? And how many years has it been since you’ve seen them?”

Derek sighs, frustrated. “Awhile. But I know them, Stiles, they're peaceful. They’re good. They want to help.”

“Because your plans always work out so well?”

Derek doesn’t even do him the courtesy of looking offended. “You have to do something."

Stiles can feel his anger bubbling up under the surface. “I’ve had it up to here with werewolves telling me what I have to do,” he hisses, feeling his face flush with rage. “You do not get to order me around anymore, okay? I’m not 17, there’s no kanima or woodland sprite of the week, and you don’t get to have any say in my life.”

Derek’s sitting up straighter now, his features closing off.

“This isn’t about wanting to control you,” Derek says firmly, making Stiles laugh and cut off whatever else he’s about to say.

“That’s good, because you _don’t_. I will carry your stupid magic baby, because apparently that’s my karma for having sex with you. But I’m out of the werewolf business the second this is over.”

Derek’s brows crease in confusion, and it takes him a moment before he asks, quieter, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want anything to do with you or your baby,” Stiles says, making handmotions toward his stomach. “Do whatever you want for _the good of the pack_ , but seriously, I’m out once it’s born.”

Derek stays silent for a long time, long enough for some of the anger to drain out of Stiles. He knows he was too harsh, even if all he wants right now is for this entire situation to be over, so he can go back to feeling somewhat closer to normal. Derek’s always been able to drag a certain kind of sharp frustration out of him, and it’s easy to lash out at him now, especially when he doesn’t have anyone else but Scott he can even talk to about what’s going on.

He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, trying to think of how to express that to Derek, when Derek finally just pushes himself up from the chair.

“Start answering your damn phone,” he says darkly, and Stiles still feels guilty enough that he nods, once. Derek stares down at him for another moment, his expression wavering like he might stay anyway, but then he turns and walks out.

Stiles is left to close his eyes, trying to ignore the rush of pain that follows now that his adrenaline is settling.


	3. Chapter 3

Werewolf or not, Derek’s eyes are starting to feel the strain from staring at the latest magic book he’s been scanning through, in the hopes of finding something to help Stiles. At least this one isn’t in Latin, like the other three had been, but it’s still not getting him any closer to finding answers or a way to help. 

Not that, even if he finds one, Stiles would let him.

Derek closes the book and tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, letting out a noise of frustration. He’s almost positive that the best course of action is going to Sherice and her pack, but the last time he’d brought that plan up, it hadn’t gone over well. At all. He’ll never understand how Stiles can think Derek being invested in whether or not Stiles _is in agonizing pain_ is a reason to get angry.

He understands some of the anger, though. Hell, he even agrees with it. Derek should have known about the blue moon, should have been more careful. This is his fault, and they both know it.

If anything happens to Stiles—outside of getting pregnant, obviously—Derek’s never going to forgive himself.

“You’re moping again,” Isaac says as he appears in the room, kicking his shoes off and leaving them in a pile on the floor by the door. Boyd follows behind him, moving toward the kitchen and returning with a bag of Doritos a moment later. “It’s like it makes the whole place reek.”

Derek glares at him but Isaac just laughs as he reaches into the bag and pulls out a handful of chips.

"Why don't you just apologize to Stiles, for whatever you did, then you guys can go back to driving me insane with your loud sex," Isaac says around a mouthful.

Boyd gives Isaac a pointed look and they have some nonverbal exchange, and when Isaac looks back at Derek, he looks apologetic. "Right, yeah. Sorry," he says.

Derek watches them for a second, twin looks of pity on their faces and he suddenly realizes they _know_. "Shit," he says, dropping his head into his hands with a groan. "I'm going to kill Scott."

"He didn't tell us," Boyd says, calm and certain. "We've been around Stiles. It wasn't hard to put it together."

"Does he know you know?" Derek asks, looking back at them, thankful they aren't making this worse than they could. He's sure the only reason they aren't mocking him relentlessly is because he's their Alpha. They shake their heads 'no' in unison. "Good. Keep it that way. I don't want to give him any more reasons to hate me right now."

They sit silently for a while and Derek steals a few chips. He's thinking about which book he should start next or if he should try his luck online—even though he knows he won't get anywhere without Stiles' research skills—when Boyd finally clears his throat to get Derek's attention.

They're both looking concerned now. "What can we do to help?" Boyd asks. "He doesn't look good, man."

Derek feels a sense of pride well up in his chest; it's always a good feeling when his pack makes him not regret some of his choices, like choosing to give them the bite.

“He’s sick.” Derek reaches for the book on the coffee table again. “But he won’t talk to me.” He’s still been keeping tabs on Stiles through Isaac, and by stopping by his place, unseen, almost every night. Stiles looks worse—he’s pale and too thin, and Derek’s seen him wince just getting out of bed.

“So you’re looking for a cure,” Boyd says, picking up one of the other books.

“The baby’s feeding off his energy, right?” Isaac asks. “And if he was a werewolf, it would be different, but since he’s a human, it’s taking too much. Like in Twilight. Minus most of the creepy parts.” When they both stare at him, he shrugs a little, looking embarrassed. “What? I had a girlfriend who liked them.”

“It’s a similar concept,” Derek says, while Boyd gives Isaac some serious side eye. “He’s a mage, though, and that’s supposed to keep them both safe. To keep what you’re talking about from happening.”

“Stiles doesn’t know how to control his magic, though,” Boyd says, still flipping through a book. “It’s like we had to learn how to control our shifts with an anchor. If you don’t practice it, don’t ground the magic in something real, it’s unstable.”

“There’s another pack, who knows more about magic than I do,” Derek admits after a moment. Boyd and Isaac exchange looks before turning their full attention to him.

“So why exactly haven’t you taken Stiles to see them yet?” Isaac asks. Boyd looks impatient, for maybe the first time ever.

“You think I didn’t _try_?” Derek feels exasperated. “Have you ever tried getting Stiles to do something he doesn’t want to?”

“Just throw him in the back of your car,” Isaac says, waving his hand. “That’s pretty much your style anyway.”

“I can’t just imprison him for the next few months.” Not that Derek hasn’t considered that option. Because he has, very seriously. But he thinks Stiles would fight any sort of aid they’d be able to offer him at all then, plus, there’s the matter of how to explain to the Sheriff why his son wouldn’t be around or taking calls. No, it just wouldn’t work. “He has to want their help.”

“Which is why you’re reading magic books and hoping there’s a section marked ‘How To Get My Boyfriend Pregnant With a Werewolf And Not Kill Him’?” Isaac asks, giving Derek a look.

Boyd doesn’t seem impressed either. “Your plan sucks.”

“You don’t know there’s _not_ a section called that,” Derek mutters under his breath. “Do you two have a better idea?”

"What about Dr. Deaton?" Isaac asks. "What did he say?"

Derek grumbles out a breath. "Stiles didn’t want me to go to him but I did anyway, after what happened when you knocked him down playing lacrosse."

"I take it he wasn't helpful?" Boyd asks.

"When is he ever? He laughed at me." Derek sighs. "But he did lend me a few of these." He gestures at the books littering the table.

They each grab a book to settle down with, Boyd on the couch next to him and Isaac on the floor across the table.

A while later, when the sun has started to set across the loft's window, Boyd closes the second book he's gone through and sounds exasperated. "This is pointless. Maybe I should talk to Stiles, convince him to see the other pack."

"I'm pretty sure that'll just make him more angry, knowing more people know. The chances of him listening to me will be worse then,” Derek sighs.

"Why's he so against it, if it would help?" Isaac asks.

Derek shakes his head, "I don't know. I think he’s just overwhelmed. And mad at me."

“Because you broke up with him?” Isaac asks, which makes Derek’s shoulders sag a little.

“We weren’t really—”

“Bullshit,” Boyd cuts in, staring Derek down and startling him.

“You were,” Isaac agrees, nodding. “He was over here all the damn time. And your hormones go all crazy every time you even look at him. His do too.”

“Well, then he broke up with me,” Derek snaps; Isaac and Boyd exchange looks. “He doesn’t want to talk to me, and he doesn’t want the baby.”

Their expressions soften. “I’m sorry, man,” Isaac says, reaching to put a hand on his shoulder. The weight of it is weirdly comforting, and Derek feels more settled.

“We’re going to find a way to fix this,” Derek says, a little more vehemently, and reaches for one of the other books in the stack. “And it’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.”

Boyd hesitates, then opens back up his own book. “We’ll go over these again in case we missed something.” Derek can tell he doesn’t think they did. Hell, Derek doesn’t think they missed anything either; these books are just useless for what he needs.

“I’ll get coffee,” Isaac says, rising from the floor.

“It’s Stiles,” Boyd says to Derek, once they can hear Isaac fumbling with the coffee maker. “He always does the impossible in the end.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, hoping it sounds like he really believes it.

...  
...

Derek's at Target to pick up underwear and a few shirts. He's walking down the aisle toward menswear with a basket in hand when he passes the baby section. He freezes in front of a rack of pajama _onesies_ , his brain supplies, and he suddenly has a crushing realization.

He's going to have a kid.

He's going to be a _dad_.

He's been so preoccupied with worry over Stiles' health that he hasn't even thought about what comes after.

He's aware that he's panicking. His feet feel like they’re glued to the spot as he stares, wide-eyed, at a particularly adorable blue pajama set with bunnies on it, and his heart rate is beating so fast it feels like he might implode.

He can barely take care of his pack—Erica left him because he's so incompetent—and he definitely isn’t taking care of Stiles right now. Those are just some of the smaller, more recent examples of his fuck-ups. How is he supposed to take care of a baby?

He’s going to screw this up so horribly. Sure, he's a little better with his pack now, even Peter occasionally follows directions, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to be able to provide the kind of support system a kid would need. Or that _Derek_ is going to need. No, he’s going to drop the baby, or forget to feed it, or just make some kind of mistake that’s going to ruin the kid’s life, like he ruins everything else he touches.

Derek’s pretty sure he’s going to start hyperventilating soon.

“I hate baby showers,” a voice says beside him, and it takes Derek a moment to realize that it’s the Sheriff. Because he’s still Derek Hale, and his life still sucks. “You never know what to get people,” John says, reaching out to point at a green onesie with frogs. “I’m pretty sure Stiles had that exact one, and his mom liked it. If that helps.”

“Thanks,” Derek croaks.

John keeps standing there, though, shifting on his feet and it’s obvious he wants to say something else. Normally, Derek would make some excuse and flee the store, but his feet still feel like cement. “You haven’t seen much of Stiles lately, have you?” he asks finally.

Derek’s seen a lot of Stiles lately. He saw him this morning, through the window of his kitchen, forcing himself to eat a banana. He saw him a week before that standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, eyeing the beginning of a bulge in his stomach, while Derek perched in a tree outside. He saw Stiles at this very Target, buying sweatshirts to cover up said bulge the next day.

He’ll be damned if he’s telling the Sheriff any of that.

“No, Sir.”

John is studying him. “I know you were seeing each other,” he says, and Derek can feel the panic rising again, but then it dawns on him that the Sheriff doesn’t look mad. He seems... nervous. Worried. “And around the time you stopped is when he started acting odd.” He fixes Derek with a concerned look. “If you know what’s going on with my son, Derek, you need to tell me.”

“Have you asked him?” Derek asks, then has to force himself not to wince. John’s going to notice the deflection.

“He says he’s fine, but you and I both know that’s a load of crap. Something’s going on with him. Even if it wasn’t completely obvious, Scott won’t even look me in the eyes when he comes around now. That boy never could lie worth a damn.”

Derek forces himself to focus and shut down his face. He's actually been interrogated by this man before and he managed to remain stoic and unreadable; he can do it again now. "Honestly, I don't know. He won't talk to me, hasn't for weeks."

That was the wrong thing to say because it clearly puts John on alert. He narrows his eyes at Derek, almost looking relieved to have a target to direct his fear and blame at. "Bad break up?"

Derek keeps his face impassive. "Not particularly."

"Hm," John says, watching him speculatively. He looks as though he’s going to let Derek off the hook for now, though, because his shoulders slump as he rubs a hand down his face with a frustrated sigh. It makes Derek feel like a piece of shit for causing this. John Stilinski is a good man, and he doesn't deserve any more pain.

"He looks—" John pauses, looking like what he's about to say tastes sour on his tongue. "Whatever's wrong with him, it hits a little too close to home. I've tried to get him to see a doctor, get some tests done, but he refuses to even admit there's a problem. I think he hates doctors almost as much as she did."

It takes Derek a moment to realize what he's actually saying and it makes his chest ache, the pain so clear in John's eyes, the memories so fresh.

"When you see him, you tell him if he's trying to spare me something, he needs to knock it off. You understand me, Hale?"

His eyes are rimmed red and Derek has to look away. He nods, clearing his throat. "Yes, sir."

"Alright." John gives him a terse nod. "You take care, son."

He claps his hand on Derek shoulder as he walks past and Derek can't make his throat work to say goodbye.

He buys the green frog onesie.

...  
...

Mrs. Porter’s cat, Corporal Cuddles, flicks her tail back and forth as she eyes Derek. “This is my branch,” he tells her, nodding toward the ground. “Go find your own tree.”

She hisses at him, and Derek rolls his eyes.

He’d had hopes that they might be able to reach some sort of understanding, but this is the tenth time she’s been pissed at him for encroaching on what she considers her territory, and what Derek considers the perfect place to check up on Stiles. He’s given up on them being friends anytime soon.

He hisses back at her, with fangs. Her tail flicks back and forth again and she lays down on the branch, apparently unimpressed and bored of him already and planning to fall asleep.

Derek turns his attention back toward the window below him, watching Stiles sit at the kitchen table and poke enthusiastically at his dinner. He’s been working on it for the better part of a half hour, and Derek’s not sure he’s eaten more than a bite or two.

He pulls out his phone to text Stiles. _How are you feeling?_

From his vantage point, he can see Stiles looking at his phone when it goes off, and that he chooses to ignore him. He can’t see exactly from this far back, but he’s pretty sure Stiles is rolling his eyes.

Derek’s tried several times to talk sense into him—he’s brought him books on magic and on pregnancy, he’s even brought over ice cream once at 2 in the morning and left it on Stiles window sill, because Peter seemed to think that was a good idea. Stiles tossed it away without so much as a bite.

Derek’s getting a little desperate.

He wants so badly to help, but it feels like whatever he tries, Stiles shuts him down. He hadn’t realized how close they’d gotten over the years until Stiles shut him out completely. He misses their text conversations, he misses Stiles making movie references he knows Derek’s not going to get. They’d stop being quite so antagonistic sometime in Stiles’ senior year of high school, and he’s not sure when that general tolerance bloomed into something of a friendship, but now that it’s gone, Derek aches. Everything just feels deafeningly quiet now without Stiles, and he hates it.

Stiles appears to give up on eating as he stands, but then something changes, and he doubles over with his arms wrapping around his middle, the glass and plate that had been in his hands falling to the ground with a sharp clang, shattering glass and ceramic across the floor. Stiles groans, hands reaching to grip the side of the table, but he fumbles.

Derek moves lightning fast, startling Corporal Cuddles in his frenzied dash to get to Stiles. He knows from experience that the kitchen window is unlocked, and he’s never been more grateful. He’s through the window and reaching Stiles in no time, catching him before his head hits the ground.

“Stiles,” he says, frantic. Stiles’ head lolls on his arm and Derek picks him up before he even knows what he’s doing. He can already smell the blood from the cuts on Stiles’ side, where he landed on the broken dishes.

“Stiles, wake up,” he says again as he carries him up the stairs to Stiles room. He settles him on the bed and pulls his shirt up to see how bad the cuts are. They aren’t deep, Derek was able to catch his shoulders before most of his body weight pressed him into the shards. They won't even need stitches. Derek breathes a small sigh of relief that he’s not going to bleed to death.

He holds Stiles’ head in his hands, examining him, "Stiles,” he says again, trying to wake him. He notices now how hot and clammy his skin feels. Up this close he can see clearly the dark circles under his eyes and the way his skin looks almost translucent. He’d look malnourished if it wasn’t for his stomach, which kind of looks like a beer belly.

Derek sits on the bed next to Stiles, closes his eyes and just breathes for a moment, trying to tamp down on the panic he’s feeling. Stiles isn’t responding but he’s breathing and his heart rate is steady, albeit faster than it should be.

He notices then that Stiles’ shirt is still pulled up and he can see fading bruises on Stiles’ hip, where his sweat pants have slid down. A quick flash of anger rises up in him. The bruises are obvious signs of a fall, meaning this has happened before. He forces the anger down—it won’t do him any good to be angry right now. He needs to help Stiles and he’s finally able to, he just wishes it wasn’t like this.

He looks away from the nasty yellowing bruise and finds himself staring at Stiles’ stomach. It’s round, the skin stretching smoothly and he has an urge to reach out and touch. His hand hovers momentarily, thinking of his baby growing inside of Stiles, his _pack_. The little heart is beating away, fast and strong, and settling him in a way he hasn't felt in months.

A pained moan from Stiles jerks him back to reality and he pulls his hand back. “Stiles?” he asks again, leaning closer. “Are you awake?”

Stiles’ breathing is a little more erratic now, and it takes a moment, but eventually he opens his eyes to squint at Derek, clearly having trouble focusing. If Derek wasn’t positive he hadn’t hit his head on anything, he’d be thinking concussion right now. “Ow,” Stiles mumbles.

Derek takes in a deep breath to settle his own nerves. Stiles is going to be okay. “You collapsed,” he explains, reaching to wipe some of the sweat from his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me this has happened before?”

Stiles is still watching him with a slightly glazed expression. “Where’d you come from, Derek?” he asks, then smiles a little. “Derek.”

On second thought, maybe he does have a concussion. Derek breathes in through his nose.

“Fuck. Do I need to take you to the hospital?” It’s not like he’s got a lot of experience with these things—he’s used to cuts and wounds that heal instantly, but this is obviously something more internal. It’s probably not even something that human doctors could fix.

Stiles is shaking his head at him, then wincing and closing his eyes again. “No moving,” he whispers, as though that’s somehow Derek’s fault too. “And no hospital.”

“Stiles,” Derek starts again, but Stiles flails his arm a little, catching Derek’s wrist in his hand, and Derek goes still. It occurs to him suddenly that he can’t remember the last time they’ve touched.

“No hospital,” Stiles says, voice still groggy. “Promise.”

Derek glares down at him, not that Stiles notices with his eyes closed. From the way his breathing has evened out again, he’s not even sure Stiles is still awake. But he is still breathing, so that counts for something. “I promise,” Derek sighs, settling Stiles’ hand back at his side gingerly.

He rubs a hand over his face, feeling lost. They can’t keep doing this. If it comes down to Stiles putting his life at risk or hating Derek forever, Derek’s just going to take Isaac’s advice and throw him in the back of his car and drag him, kicking and screaming, to the Harrison’s.

Stiles looks slightly more peaceful now that he’s asleep, but his brow is creased, like he’s still in pain even in sleep. That makes Derek’s chest feel too tight, and suddenly he can’t just sit there.

He waits a few more minutes, until he’s convinced himself that Stiles really is just sleeping it off, before wandering back downstairs. There’s still glass and ceramic covering most of the kitchen floor, and it gleams against the harsh overhead lights as Derek finds a dustbin and starts to clean it up. It keeps his mind focused on something that isn’t the fear bubbling up in his chest.

He can’t be the reason more people die. He can’t be the reason _Stiles_ dies.


	4. Chapter 4

He knows he’s technically awake because his head is _throbbing_ but he doesn’t have the actual energy to open his eyes. He must make a sound or move because there’s a hand on his forehead, brushing back into his hair and down to rest at the base of his neck. It feels nice, it feels like the drumming in his head is lessening. Which, wait, that means: werewolf.

He forces his eyes open and thankfully the room is dark. There’s someone sitting next to him but his eyes drift toward the moonlight draping through his window and revealing a familiar leather jacket folded neatly on the back of his desk chair. So Derek, then. That makes sense. “You were creepin’ on me, weren’t you?” he mumbles so quiet he’s pretty sure Derek wouldn’t have heard him if it weren’t for his super hearing.

Derek hesitates a little too long. “I was worried.”

Stiles is about to voice how much that isn’t okay but Derek stops him. “No,” he says, firm. “You won’t make me feel guilty for checking on you when you’re obviously in such bad shape that you’re collapsing. Plural,” he gives a soft poke to his bruised hip. Stiles winces from the sharp pain of the small touch and from the memory of waking up in the bathroom, realizing he’d passed out brushing his teeth. The fear that he was getting worse.

He's abruptly aware his whole body is aching, moreso than usual, and his side feels especially tender but he doesn't want to risk moving to check. Moving usually means more pain and tiredness and a queasy stomach.

"Stiles, how often has this happened?" Derek asks, concern and anger etched along his frown.

Stiles feels a wave of guilt wash over him at that. “I’m handling it,” he starts, but Derek levels him with a serious look.

“You’re not.”

And the thing is, Stiles knows that Derek’s right. He feels weaker every day, and he’s not even half way through the pregnancy. A few more weeks of this, and Stiles isn’t sure he’s going to have the energy to get out of bed at all. He’s in over his head.

“Go to hell,” he says instead.

He watches Derek take in a deep breath, before he leans closer to Stiles. “Your dad thinks you’re dying.”

It’s like a punch to his gut, and it takes whatever wind he had left out of his metaphorical sails. “What?” he asks, voice gone impossibly quiet now. He knows his dad is worried about him, he can see it every time he catches Stiles stumbling or wandering into the kitchen after another sleepless night. But what Derek’s saying... “He doesn’t.”

“He does,” Derek says, putting his hands on Stiles’ arms. His expression has gone softer, more concerned. “He’s scared out of mind, Stiles. And so am I.”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath. Memories of his father after his mother died—how quiet and withdrawn he’d been, the way he laughed like it was an unnatural thing now—flicker through his mind, and now that he’s really thinking about it, he can see the same deep-rooted sadness tinging his father’s behavior around him lately. It makes his breath catch.

“You’re not okay,” Derek continues, shaking his head at him. “I have read every damn magic book I can find, and I don’t have an answer. I’m trying, though. I need you to start trying too.”

Stiles shuts his eyes; he can’t look at Derek when he looks this worried. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” he says, voice shaking, the words coming out in a whisper.

Derek’s hand grips the back of his neck, firm and reassuring. “Let me take care of you.” He sounds so earnest it makes Stiles sag with relief, accepting that maybe now’s the time to let some of his anger at Derek go.

He nods his head, his throat too tight for words, and he pretends he doesn’t hear the way Derek’s breath catches before he breathes out a relieved sigh. A forehead presses against his and Derek whispers, “Thank you.”

Stiles blames his hormones for the tears prickling his eyes.

...  
...

Derek has a plan and it’s taking everything Stiles has to not fight his instincts about Derek's plans, which are argue, flee, rinse and repeat. He knows he agreed to let Derek help and to go speak with the other pack, but giving up what little control he has, _to Derek_ , is a difficult thing to accept. Not that he was actually in control at all. No, _it_ is in control of Stiles.

Like right now, he's supposed to be packing a bag for who knows how long for their trip north. He was actually feeling well enough to do laundry and gather his things until his nose started bleeding all over his clean clothes.

Now he's standing over the bathroom sink with his head tipped back, trying really hard not to faint again. His head is throbbing and holding it at this angle is making him dizzy.

He holds his other arm up so he can see his watch. If he's lucky (ha! yeah right) Derek will be running late and he'll have enough time to clean up and get some new shirts packed. He just hopes Derek won’t be able to smell the nose bleed on him; he really doesn't need to add another bullet to the list of ways this thing is trying to kill him. 

And, _shit_ , he's supposed to talk to his dad before he leaves, too. It's been three days since he and Derek came to a sort of truce, meaning he's had three days to tell him and, of course, he's waited to the last possible second.

"Stop bleeding," he tells his nose, dabbing at it gingerly with the towel he's going to have to throw away. The corner of the towel comes away clean—finally—and he tilts his head back down to see his dad in the mirror, watching him from the doorway. _Fuck_ , there's no way this looks good, and neither does the look on his father’s face. He looks stricken and Stiles' heart seizes.

His dad clears his throat, swallowing, and says, "Where are you going?" He gestures down the hall to Stiles' bedroom, where he’s apparently seen the open suitcase.

"Uh." Stiles squashes his learned instinct to lie. "Let me clean up first, but... we, uh, need to talk."

John nods twice and looks away, blinking. "I'll be downstairs."

As soon as he’s disappeared down the stairs, Stiles washes up and takes another look at himself in the mirror. There’s still a decent amount of blood on his shirt, so he peels it off and pauses at the reflection looking back at him. He’s always been on the thinner side, thanks mostly to an overabundance of energy, but he can count his ribs now just by looking. The cuts from the other night are scabbed over, but there’s at least a dozen of them along his side. He barely recognizes himself.

Stiles sucks in a deep breath and turns away.

By the time he’s found a new shirt and made his way downstairs, his dad is camped out at the kitchen table, mug of coffee in his hands and its twin sitting at the other end of the table for Stiles. The smell makes him nauseous, so he pushes it away as he sits.

John just stares at him, waiting, but also studying him. His eyes keep sweeping over him, like they have been for weeks, like he’s trying to figure him out. Though now that Derek’s dropped that bombshell of information on him, he wonders if his dad is trying to _memorize_ what he looks like. He has to screw his eyes shut to drown out the wave of panic.

“So,” John says, finally, into the silence.

“I’m going away for awhile,” Stiles says carefully, opening his eyes. He wishes now that in all his anxiety over this conversation, he’d come up with a better explanation, or some magic phrase that would put his dad at ease. As it stands, he’s got nothin’. John grips his coffee mug tighter.

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, and he wants so badly to duck his head down so he doesn’t have to keep watching the emotions flickering across his father’s face, but he owes him more than that. “I know you’re worried about me.”

John is silent, and Stiles sucks in a lungful of air.

“And I know we haven’t really talked about it.”

Understatement of the year.

“I didn’t want to get you involved—” he starts, but John slams his hand into the table and Stiles startles back. The coffee mug rattles on the table.

“You’re my son,” his dad whispers, with a ferocity Stiles hasn’t seen in a long time.

“With werewolf business,” Stiles finishes, hastily. “What’s going on is about magic and supernatural and I just... didn’t want you getting hurt.” He doesn’t add on that the threat isn’t physical this time, but rather about trying not to scar his father for life with the knowledge that his _son_ is pregnant. They’ve gone through enough.

His dad still doesn’t look convinced, and Stiles can feel how much he wants to push for more. “Where you’re going,” John says instead, cautious. “Is it going to help you get better?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, because it’s the truth, and he’s so sick of lying to his dad. “But I think it might.”

John’s on his feet and Stiles thinks for a second that he’s angry, that he’s going to storm out of the room and Stiles can feel his stomach drop at the idea of leaving things like this. But instead, his dad wraps his arms around Stiles tightly, squeezing him into a hug. “Take as long as you need,” he says, his voice thick, and _shit_ , Stiles can feel his eyes welling up.

He’s saved from having to speak again by the sound of the doorbell coming from the other room. His dad refuses to let go for a few more moments, but eventually he pulls back, eyes red. He looks just a fraction more relaxed than he had before, and it’s a reminder to Stiles that even if it doesn’t feel like it, he’s making the right decision.

John leaves him to answer the door, while Stiles stands on unsteady feet to follow, slower. He can see Derek’s tense, slightly surprised, expression from the doorway. “Derek,” John says, giving him a curt nod.

“Sheriff,” Derek says, like he’s not quite sure what to call him.

“Any time trouble crops up, you seem to be involved,” his dad says, and Stiles doesn’t have to see the look on his face to know that he’s staring Derek down. There’s a definite threat in there. It makes Stiles feel a little lighter, knowing his father is always on his side.

“I’m trying to help,” Derek says, and something about that, or about his no-nonsense tone, makes John step aside and motion him inside.

...  
...

They get on the road a half hour behind schedule because Stiles had to finish packing and he felt so drained, he was moving a lot slower than he had been earlier. Derek stayed downstairs with his Dad and Stiles could hear them discussing where they were headed—the coast of northern California, near the Redwoods. Luckily Derek gleaned that his dad knew very little about the whats and whys so he didn't say anything to bring on more questions. Just that they were seeking the help of a larger, more established pack with magical experience. Stiles had never been more grateful that his dad understood blissful ignorance, in some circumstances, than he was then.

"How long will it take to get there?" he asks, settling into the Camaro's bucket seat.

"Half a day’s drive," Derek answers, eyes flicking to him momentarily then to the road again. He looks tense, gripping the steering wheel with more force than necessary.

Beacon Hills is an hour from the I-5 and the tree-lined roads don’t cut straight across the state like he really wishes they would at the moment. He’s pretty sure Derek can tell he’s feeling a little nauseated because he’s taking the turns easier than Stiles knows he usually drives.

“So—” hopefully talking will be a good distraction from the trees whirling by “—what do you know about this pack?”

Derek keeps side-eying him, probably afraid he’ll make a mess on his nice upholstery. “Our packs were allied. I don’t really know what went on between the adults when we gathered. I was usually off in the woods with the younger packmates.”

“Did you get together often?”

“Only every few years. There were a couple of other small packs from the area that came too."

“Like a werewolf summit,” he says, smiling. Derek’s never shared much about pack or his family, and Stiles has never asked because he gets that it’s painful for him to talk about. But he loves getting new information about werewolves that doesn’t come in a vague form from an archaic book. First hand experiences are always more detailed.

He realizes he’s going to get his own encounters with a real pack. He can’t say he’s not excited, regardless of the circumstances.

The road begins to slope up to scale the mountain separating Beacon Hills from the rest of the state and Stiles groans, the shifting altitude already pressing against his skull.

“Sorry,” Derek says. “You know there’s no other way.”

“I know, it’s fine.” He closes his eyes and slouches a little further in the seat, as far away from the windows as he can get. “Keep talking.”

“What else do you want to know?”

He thinks about that question for a bit; there’s so much he wants to know about werewolves and their hierarchy, their pack rules and rituals. But the pressure in his head and the tremble of pain radiating through his body is a reminder of priority. If they can help him, there will be time for questions later, and he’s sure Derek will tell him anything he wants to know. Assuming he survives. “Do you really think they can help me?” he asks, finally.

“Sherice said they have a mage in their pack. She’s hoping she can teach you how to use your magic.”

 

He can barely hear what Derek’s saying, the road is twisting and turning more as they climb and it’s like all the terrible things happening to his body are elevating with the mountain. The constant ache he lives with now is ratcheting up, throbbing through his veins. The pressure in his head is so intense his vision is starting to blacken at the edges. Stiles tries to focus on breathing through his nose, counting out the breaths, hoping he can breathe through it like he would for a panic attack.

“Stiles.” Derek’s hand gently touches his knee, making him wince, and Derek quickly pulls away. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” he says, voice hoarse but quiet around his heavy breathing.

“It’s not.” Derek’s worried again, and he’s beginning to really hate the sound of it. “Your heart’s too fast. What can I do? What do you need?”

It takes him a few breaths before he can actually speak. “Pull over,” he says, not nearly as demanding as he wants it to come out. He can already feel the car slowing and he wonders if there’s even a shoulder along this road. He should know, he’s driven this route himself plenty of times, but he can’t remember. Can’t think through the pain. “I think I’m gonna... you should really pull over right now.”

“I am, it’s okay.”

He fumbles for the handle as the car slows because his eyes are still closed and he doesn’t want to risk looking out and losing it before they stop. The second the car gives a little jerk as it stops fully, he swings the door open, leaning out with it, and heaves a few choked breaths before he vomits. Once it subsides, he blinks through the tears in his eyes to see it’s mostly bile—there hasn’t been much in his stomach for weeks now—but what scares him is all the blood mixed in.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Derek hisses behind him and the warm hand rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades stills. Derek must realize he’s too weak to move because he helps pull him back by his shoulders and holds out a cloth. Stiles takes it with shaking fingers, wiping feebly at his mouth.

It’s a few minutes before he can speak again and he aims for levity, as usual. “I should have brought a bucket.”

Derek doesn’t laugh. He’s frowning when Stiles rolls his head to the side to look at him. “What?” Stiles asks.

“How,” Derek starts, but he closes his mouth, lips pressed into a thin line. He’s not angry, but whatever he’s feeling is clearly more than concern. “You should have said,” he says finally.

Stiles pretends he doesn’t know what Derek’s referring to. “I did. I asked you to pull over.”

“You should have told me how bad things are,” Derek cuts him off. “Do you really hate me that much?”

The question catches Stiles off guard, and Derek only watches him for another moment before he looks back at the road, not waiting for a response. His frustration that had been so obvious a moment before has seeped away, replaced by a weary resignation. “Do you need another minute?”

“I don’t know if there’s anything left to throw up,” Stiles says, shrugging weakly. “But I’ll let you know if I need you to stop again.”

Derek nods stiffly and pulls back onto the road. He’s driving even slower now, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. Stiles’ stomach still feels uneasy, and he reaches to turn on the air conditioning, hoping the circulating air will help with the motion-sickness, at least. He curls into the seat as much as he can and tilts his head back, aiming to rest his eyes until the nausea passes.

By the time he’s opening his eyes again, they’re not on the highway anymore and the sun is much lower in the sky. The car bounces as Derek turns onto an uneven road, making Stiles’ head bump against the window it was resting on. “Sorry,” Derek says quickly beside him, reaching out to touch the side of Stiles’ head instantly as he slows the car to an almost crawl.

“What’s one more internal injury,” Stiles mutters, wincing, even as he can feel some of the pain seeping out thanks to Derek’s hand on his skin. When he looks back at Derek, he doesn’t look amused.

“We’re not far.” Derek finally pulls his hand back to focus on the road again. “You slept for awhile.”

“First time for everything,” Stiles says, looking out the window. They’re in a wooded area now, with redwood trees stretching up and around them, the only thing for miles besides the empty road. It makes his head hurt just looking at them flying by, so he studies his hands instead. It’s easy to see why a pack of wolves would like it here, though. It puts the forests surrounding Beacon Hills to shame.

“Is this where you’d go for your werewolf family reunions?”

Derek casts a glance at him. “We’re not related. But yes, this is where we came.”

“Were there a lot of you?”

“When we were all there? Almost a hundred.”

It’s a number that seems mind-boggling compared to Derek’s small pack of three (four if you include Peter, or five if you count Scott—which Scott wouldn’t). But Stiles can almost picture it, with cubs running around and playing in the creeks and the adults having... barbecues and hunting squirrels in the woods or something. Actually, he’s not sure what born werewolves normally do. He’s used to Derek, who doesn’t do much other than sulk, and Peter, whose idea of a good time involves a shopping spree at Macy’s.

He’s going to meet _normal_ werewolves. It’s going to be awesome.

“There’s a lot fewer now,” Derek adds after a moment, quieter. “And we haven’t all gotten together in years.”

“But this pack is still big?”

“They’ve fended off most threats, better than the smaller packs.”

Stiles is pretty sure that implies more than hunters. He starts wondering just how scary what he’s stepping into is going to be, if they’ve been able to keep their numbers that strong. “Well, they couldn’t be worse than you. No one is worse than you.” When Derek scowls, he laughs—and Derek’s head whips over to him so fast, Stiles can only blink back.

“What?”

“You laughed,” Derek says, a little suspiciously. “You haven’t done that in... awhile.”

Stiles pauses at that, and it occurs to him that his head isn’t pounding any more either. And that it hasn’t in a few minutes. Huh. “I feel better,” he says, just as confused. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” Derek is still studying him.

“It’s good, right?” Stiles doesn’t feel amazing, or like he’s going to go run a marathon anytime soon, but the constant pain that’s filled his every waking moment seems... eased. A little. After so many months of constant suffering, it’s almost unnatural not to have the steady throb of pain coursing through his veins. He tries to roll his neck, and okay, that’s still painful. Definitely not healed, but it’s... better.

Derek doesn’t answer him as he slows the car even more. Stiles hadn’t realized they were here yet—he’d thought it was the beginning of a small town by the cottages lining the grounds, as well as a bright, red barn.

Now that he’s paying attention, though, he can see what’s obviously the main house, set further back on the property in a clearing of the woods, that they’re heading towards. It’s massive, essentially the size of a mansion, and it’s not decrepit like the Hale house had been, but it’s... seen better days, maybe. There are vines growing up the side, and what looks like a tree house affixed _to the actual building_ upstairs. A few of the windows are completely missing their panes, and yep, that’s a goat standing on the wrap-around porch. He doesn’t even want to think about what they’re going to do to the goat. His stomach feels sick.

There are a few kids running around outside, tackling each other to the ground and wrestling in the dirt, and a shirtless man—werewolf, his mind corrects—is eyeing them from where he’s crouched in the garden as Derek pulls the car to a stop beside the house.

It all feels very ominous.

“Where have you taken me?” Stiles asks, staring out the window. “Is this where I go to die? It literally looks like a scene out of Scooby Doo. You’re kidding me, right? Take me home.” His fears about staying here are definitely not dissipating.

“Shut up, Shaggy.” Derek climbs out of the car.

“I’m clearly Velma,” Stiles argues, and Derek quirks an eyebrow at him before opening his door for him. Stiles wants to make fun of how cliché that is, but he still finds he has to lean against Derek when he stands, so maybe Derek’s not as dumb as he looks. After sitting in a car for so many hours, his muscles feel too tight, and walking is painful.

A woman appears on the front porch, with short, messy gray hair and a warm smile. Derek whispers, "Here's Sherice." She doesn’t look like the powerful Alpha of a large pack but he knows not to underestimate her. She’s no doubt much more powerful than Derek, having such a large pack and years of experience.

“Derek, welcome,” she says, arms opening as she descends the porch steps to meet them halfway. She embraces them together—Derek is basically holding Stiles up still—for a moment and when she pulls back, she places her hands on Stiles’ cheeks, looking him in the eyes. “Stiles, welcome.”

“Hi, um,” he says, eyes darting to Derek, who is smirking at him. “Thank you, for agreeing to help.”

“Of course, darling.” She’s so sincere Stiles swears her eyes are sparkling, but not in the scary ‘I’m the Alpha now’ way Stiles is familiar with. She is, without a doubt, not what he was expecting. The rest of his fears about this place start to drain away. “Lets get you inside to rest,” she says, leading them forward with a gentle hand, taking Stiles’ in hers.

...  
...

Stiles is sitting on the bed with two pillows propped up behind his back by the time Derek returns from the car, with bags now in tow and a cup of tea. Sherice must have sensed how exhausted he was, because she’d sent him straight up to bed rather than forcing him to meet the rest of the pack just yet.

“Sorry, she insisted,” Derek says, setting the tea on the bedside table beside him. Even as a non-werewolf, Stiles thinks it smells foul.

“Are all werewolves this friendly?” he asks, staring at the tea. Is it something to help with the pain? Because even if it is, he’s not certain he can stomach _that_. “Did you just get dropped on your head too many times as a child? Is that why you’re the grumpiest werewolf of them all?”

“You seem to be feeling better,” Derek comments, dropping the bags on the bed. “Can you go back to shutting up?”

“I like her,” Stiles says, choosing to ignore him. “I thought she’d be all intimidating and bad-ass, but she looks like someone’s grandmother. Their hippie, smoked-too-many-shrooms-in-the-70’s grandmother, but still.”

“You haven’t seen her in her Alpha form.” Derek moves to unzip his own bag, when Stiles frowns at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Unpacking?” Derek asks, suddenly confused.

“I can see that, genius.” He sips his tea and it tastes like grass. “This tastes like grass. Literal grass, like they grew it out back.” He grimaces and sets the teacup down again on the bedside table.

“They have an organic garden. Or, they used to. She probably did grow it herself.” Derek pulls a handful of shirts from his bag and puts them in the bottom drawer of the empty dresser. “A lot of people think herbal tea is comforting.”

“A lot of people would be wrong,” Stiles says, eyeing the tea distastefully. “But seriously, _why_ are you unpacking?”

Derek pauses to look at him. Stiles stares him down. “You want me to leave.” It’s not a question.

“Granny isn’t going to eat me,” Stiles says, motioning towards downstairs. “You don’t need to stay.”

Derek’s still just staring at him, and Stiles wishes he knew what goes on in that head of his. “I’m not just leaving you here, Stiles.”

“What good do you think you’re going to do by staying?” He sits up a little straighter. “No, really, I’m genuinely curious, so tell me. You brought me here because you don’t know how to help me, right?”

Derek’s hand clenches into a fist and his features go tight and strained.

“You want me gone that badly?” he asks.

Stiles’ stomach feels uneasy suddenly, but it’s probably from the _herbal tea_ , seriously, who does that? “Give me one good reason why you staying is a good thing.”

He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or not when Derek grabs the shirts out of the drawer again, throws them back into his bag, and walks out.

The door slams behind him and Stiles stares at it for a moment. A part of him knows he’s being unnecessarily mean to Derek. Sure, he’s trying to help but he’s also the reason Stiles is well into his second trimester of a werewolf pregnancy that is literally _sucking the life from him_.

Maybe he’ll apologize after he gives birth. Oh god, he has to give birth.

He slides down to lie on the bed but he has to roll onto his side, unable to lie flat on his back any longer because the baby puts too much pressure on him at that angle. His head is starting to pound again and he groans, hugging a pillow to his chest.

...  
...

The next morning he wakes up to chirping birds and sunbeams shining through the sheer curtains pulled over the large windows. Stiles is disoriented because he actually feels rested and that hasn’t happened in _months_. He rolls onto his other side, with much more difficulty than he’d like to admit, and there’s Derek, pulled into a comfortable looking armchair. Or rather, it would be comfortable if he wasn’t using it to sleep. His neck is craned back at an angle that even for a werewolf, Stiles thinks is going to hurt when he wakes up, and he’s got his arms crossed over his chest, defensive even in his sleep.

Stiles actually isn’t sure he’s ever seen Derek asleep before. Subconsciously, he thinks he must have, at some point in the last five years, given all the time they’ve spent together. He can remember camping (if you could call it that) in a tree on the outskirts of Beacon Hills a few years back when he, Derek and Scott had been cornered up there by a particularly angry hellhound for 30 hours, until Allison came to their rescue. He can remember staying at Derek’s loft until the sun came up, more than a few times. Not that those nights had involved _sleeping_. Well, okay, maybe Stiles had drifted off to sleep there a time or two, but every time he’d woken, Derek had already been up, leaving Stiles to wonder if he’d slept at all.

Maybe he really never has seen Derek asleep before.

He looks peaceful like this, without the worry lines darkening his features. Stiles thinks he might even find it endearing if he didn’t distinctly remember telling Derek he wanted him to leave.

Derek shifts in the seat, making a small snuffling noise, before he opens his eyes and blinks tiredly at Stiles.

“Hello,” Stiles says.

“Hi.”

“You’re still here.”

Any lingering traces of sleep-fueled-exhaustion seem to vanish from Derek’s features and he sighs, rolling his neck to work out the kinks. “Apparently I’m not supposed to leave.”

That makes Stiles’ eyebrows inch up. “How do you figure that?”

“Stop thinking you know everything,” Derek says, exasperated, as he stands up and stretches.

“I’ll stop when you start knowing _anything_.”

Stiles isn’t sure what it is about Derek that makes him act like a five year old petulant child, but he brings it out in him. “Explain?” he tries again, when Derek continues to ignore him, stretching his back and arms. His shirt is riding up, revealing the smooth skin underneath, and Stiles starts to wonder how long it’s been since he got laid.

He’s pretty sure the answer is just a really, really long time.

“I was going to leave, okay? You made yourself perfectly clear.”

“Apparently not, if you’re still here...”

Derek shoots him a glare. “The baby needs a lot of energy.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, that’s why it’s trying to eat me from the inside out.” There’s a pain starting to well up in the back of his head now, like the first sign of a migraine. So much for his well-rested, pain-free morning. “Isn’t that why we’re here? To teach me how to give it what it needs?”

“It feeds off its parents’ magic energy,” Derek mutters. “Parents. Plural.”

Stiles purses his lips, trying to make sense of that. “What?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Last night, when I was planning on leaving, Sherice said the energy that the baby needs... It can come from either of us. Mostly you, because you’re...”

“If you say the mom,” Stiles says, narrowing his eyes at him, “I will rip you to shreds, man. Just try me.”

“ _Fine_. I won’t say it. But if I’m around, it can sense me, and use some of my energy instead. And I can handle it, whereas you can’t. Kind of like when I take away your headaches. You won’t be in as much pain all the time, theoretically.”

Stiles nods seriously. “So you’re saying that your only magic power is that you can stand around. Congratulations. I’ve been saying that since 2011.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Derek snaps, and the migraine that’s been building flares up again, full force, making him wince and curl in on himself. Derek goes quiet instantly, worried.

“If you being around is supposed to help, why the hell does it _hurt_ again?” Stiles hisses through gritted teeth, reaching up to grip his head.

“Maybe because we’re fighting.” Derek sits on the edge of the bed and Stiles is pretty sure he couldn’t be further away if he tried. He looks hesitant again, unsure.

“If us fighting flares this up, shouldn’t you move to Russia? Or Yemen? I hear Uganda is _lovely_ this time of year.”

Derek ignores him, pressing a hand to his forehead, instantly relieving some of the pressure. Stiles relaxes a little, letting his hands fall away from his head. Derek’s voice is soft when he leans closer. “This is where I point out that if you hadn’t cut me out of your life, you might not have suffered as much.”

“That's like being told to choose between being eaten alive by a shark or being electrocuted.”

Derek takes his hand away, sighing, and Stiles just barely holds in a whimper at the removal. “Why do you have to be like this? I’m doing everything I can to help you, Stiles.”

“What do you want me to say, Derek?” He’s not trying to be a gigantic asshole, really. “Apparently I’m having a hard time adjusting to being _pregnant_.”

“I’m trying to help make it easier.” Derek stands and walks over to the window, and Stiles absolutely doesn’t think about how he looks with the morning sun shining behind him. “Will you just, please, let me stay and do what I can? You can’t ask me to go back to Beacon Hills alone. Your dad will shoot me.”

Stiles smiles, thinking of dad shooting Derek, but with regular bullets so the damage won't be permanent. Derek glares at him until he wipes the smile from his face. He pushes to sit up, his head a little clearer, and as much as he hates to admit it, he’s pretty sure that’s mostly because of Derek. “Okay.”

Derek raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Yes, okay, you can stay, but you have to be my bitch and get me anything I want.”

Derek smirks now. “Okay.”

Stiles is pretty sure the only reason he agrees is because he feels bad for knocking him up. He’s pretty sure that’s the only reason Derek is here at all, actually. He really should’ve been milking this more than he has.

...

...

Derek’s been gone downstairs for awhile, and there’s not much to do in the bedroom. Apparently the Harrison’s don’t believe in _TV_ , which means this is going to be the longest summer of Stiles’ life. Not that it hasn’t been already.

It takes most of his energy to get out of bed and head down the stairs. He hasn’t eaten yet today, and while he’s still not hungry, Stiles knows he needs to at least try.

“Hi, mister!” a little boy, wolfed out, shouts as he runs past Stiles, who has to plaster himself to the hall wall just to avoid being barreled into. Behind him sprints a younger girl, who takes a flying leap at the boy, only to land on Stiles’ feet instead, her head hitting the carpet with a loud thud. His eyes go wide and he’s about to make sure she’s okay, when she blinks up at him, then gives him a gap-toothed smile that involves only one fang and several missing baby teeth.

Then she’s running after the boy again with a war cry, leaving Stiles dazed.

There are sounds coming from all over the house, actually, and it occurs to Stiles that he’s catching a glimpse at what life was probably like in the Hale house for a younger Derek, when it was full of _life_.

It takes a few aborted tries before he’s able to find the kitchen, where a shirtless guy is sitting at the table and strumming a guitar while two women are cooking and talking. He hesitates in the doorway, suddenly not sure if he’s really meant to be here. Derek’s not exactly a stickler for following, or even knowing, werewolf protocol, but maybe these other werewolves are more aware of hierarchy and boundaries, and he doesn’t want to piss them off before they’ve helped him.

“You must be Stiles,” one of the women says, chopping up strawberries by the sink. “We were going to bring you a plate up soon if you didn’t come down.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, still feeling a little out of place, as he steps forward. And whoa, shirtless dude is also _pantsless_ , and there’s nothing but a guitar separating Stiles from getting way more of an eyeful than he wants this early in the morning. He clears his throat, turning his attention back to the girls. “It’s hard moving around sometimes.”

One of the girls, with long flowing brown hair, nods to him. “We heard about what happened.”

Stiles isn’t certain why he’s surprised. Sherice must have had to say something to her pack about why another Alpha and a pregnant guy were coming to stay with them, but his stomach feels a little twisted up thinking about more people knowing about the particulars, more people aware of just how fucked up his life really is.

The brunette smiles at him. “I’m Lennon, and this is Tangerine.” The other girl, a redhead, curtsies in greeting. Lennon nods to the naked guy sitting at the table, but Stiles’ pointedly does not look again. “And that’s Rufus Bear. His wife’s the one who you’ll be working with.”

‘’Welcome,” Rufus says from the table.

Stiles stares at her, breaking into a full grin. “You’re joking, right?”

Lennon pauses, confused, and Stiles’ expression falls. “About what?” she asks.

On second thought, maybe Stiles’ life isn’t so fucked up. It could be worse. His name could be _Rufus Bear_. Unironically. It makes his birth name pale in comparison.

“Are you hungry?” Tangerine asks, moving to get a plate out of the cabinet without waiting for a response. “There’s eggs and fresh fruit. It’s good nourishment for the baby.”

Surprisingly, Stiles’ stomach isn’t seizing up at the mere thought of food. He’s still not _hungry_ , but it’s an improvement. “I should probably eat,” he agrees, taking the plate from her and moving to sit at the table, as far away from Rufus Bear as he can.

“Derek’s talking to our Alpha in the garden,” Lennon says, sitting down beside him. “He hasn’t been an Alpha long, has he?”

“Caught on that he kind of sucks at it, huh?” Stiles winces after. Maybe he shouldn’t be talking Derek down in front of another pack, but it’s habit. And surely all someone has to do is look at Derek to know he’s sort of useless. It’s not like it’s some big secret.

“He’s just not very sure of himself,” Tangerine says, considering. “You can feel his unease.”

“It comes with not knowing anything,” Stiles says, motioning down to his stomach as further proof of what comes with Derek’s ignorance.

She doesn’t seem to get his meaning because she’s grinning as she stares at his stomach, looking like she wants to touch, her hands hovering in the air. “You’re very lucky. You’ve been blessed.”

Lucky and blessed not the terms he’d use to describe his situation. It’s not even in the ballpark. He picks at his eggs instead though, pleased when he doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up immediately. “Do you have magic food or something? My stomach hasn’t liked _anything_ this much in months.”

“We grow our own food,” Tangerine says, motioning outside. “We try to live off the land as much as possible. And we take turns cooking and gathering. As Mother Nature intended.”

Stiles is pretty sure he’s found vegetarian werewolves. Scott’s mind is going to be blown. “I think it’s more than that,” he says, shaking his head. “I feel better just being here, it’s weird.”

At the other end of the table, Rufus Bear starts strumming his guitar and humming along with what Stiles would think was _The Rainbow Connection_ if he wasn’t fully aware of their bias against TV. Lennon gives him a warm smile.

“We’re a strong pack. Maybe your baby can feel that,” she suggests.

“It can sense things like that?” he asks, curious. “Derek isn’t exactly an encyclopedia of werewolf information. He wouldn’t even count as a pocket book.” He feels a little bad for that, so he adds, “But he tries.”

“Like beavers!” Rufus says, smiling at him. Stiles stares back.

“Werewolves are perceptive,” Tangerine says, nodding sagely and saving Stiles from having to figure out what Rufus is talking about.

Stiles thinks about it for a moment. “It did start when we got to the property here.”

“We can sense bonds,” Tangerine says, waving her hand in the air. “We’re stronger connected.”

“Derek said that the baby can sense him,” he says. It makes sense that it might be able to sense an entire pack too, especially one as large and strong as the Harrison’s.

“It knows your mate,” Tangerine says, then instantly starts humming along with the tune Rufus is playing.

Stiles nearly spews scrambled eggs all over the table. “I think there’s some gears jammed in your senses, then, because he’s not my mate.” He laughs, trying to wrap his head around the idea. Derek doesn’t do relationships—he has a pack, but even that Stiles thinks is mostly out of the need to fill the role he’s been cast in. Left to his own devices, Derek would probably still be living in the abandoned train station underground, scowling at cats or something.

Lennon and Tangerine exchange glances, but Lennon smiles at him. “We were told that in order for the conception to take place, you had to be mates.”

Stiles laughs. “Well, whatever other poor souls had this happen to them before, they got it wrong.”

Lennon’s smile turns a little more tentative. “Maybe."

Something nudges at his hand and Stiles looks down, expecting a dog, but no, there’s a goat, trying to nibble on the end of his sleeve. Because, of course there is.

“Eucalyptus!” Rufus says, standing up suddenly, but Stiles doesn’t close his eyes fast enough and, yep, that's his penis. “There you are!”

What exactly has Stiles gotten himself into?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting two chapters today as these are a bit shorter and we're almost done editing the rest of the fic. Thanks so much to everyone for reading.

Stiles is sitting on a pile of cushions on the back lawn while Aurora paces in front of him with her hands held out to the sky. She looks like she’s doing some sort of rain dance but Derek’s pretty sure she’s ‘channeling Gaia’s energy’. That’s what she’s explained over and over again for the last few weeks, anyway. Thankfully Stiles can keep a straight face when she starts in on her hippie mother Earth rants.

Maybe it’s because he’s a werewolf and he’s tethered to the moon instead of the Earth but he has a hard time not rolling his eyes every time she speaks to him. He can appreciate nature, sure, but he’d rather just go running through it than sit and _think_ about it. At least Stiles seems interested.

Sherice walks out onto the back veranda with two glasses of ice cold lemonade and sits beside him on the swing. He puts his book down and takes the glass from her with a nod of thanks.

“Aurora tells me Stiles is doing well,” she says.

Derek nods, because he’s not sure he wants to argue with her. Or maybe he and Aurora just have different definitions of _doing well_. To Derek, that would imply that Stiles is back to his old self, able to walk around the grounds without getting winded and free of the crippling headaches, nausea, and a laundry list of other symptoms. To Aurora, it apparently means that he’s able to recite the moon’s cycles back to her, and get a few more hours of sleep a night.

Sherice smiles into her own glass of lemonade. “You don’t have to agree, Derek.”

“Shouldn’t he be fine by now?” Derek asks, turning to look at her. “We’ve been here three weeks.”

“These things take time.” She puts a hand on his knee, patting. “You think everything has to be done at once. You’re too hasty. The sign of a good Alpha is that he or she can see for themselves what’s right and what’s wrong. You think the point is to rush in and do as much as you can.”

“Things are different in Beacon Hills,” he says, watching Aurora do a cartwheel in the grass. Stiles is laughing, at least. “We don’t always have the luxury of _time_.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Derek’s pretty sure Sherice is thinking about broaching a subject, which can mean nothing good for him. He watches Rufus Bear wander by, still not wearing clothes, to collect Eucalyptus from where she’s grazing in the garden. They wind up laying stretched out together in the grass, basking in the sunlight.

“He’s better, though, isn’t he?” Sherice asks at last.

He is, but Derek’s not convinced it’s permanent. “I don’t know,” he says, creasing his brows. “You said for it to really work, the baby needed to be feeding energy off _both_ of us. What if this is just the result of me being around more? Maybe he’s still not controlling his magic.”

“Then you’ll have to keep working at it and figure it out.”

Derek sighs, slouching down further in the seat. “You sound like my mother.”

“There are worse people I could sound like,” Sherice says, and Derek can’t argue with that.

He takes a drink of the lemonade; it tastes perfect. He should take some out to Stiles, see if he can stomach it today.

He knows she’s watching him, she looks charmed. “You’re a good match,” she says. Derek wants to pretend he heard a lie where there wasn’t one.

“He hates me.”

She raises her eyebrows, amused. “Anyone can see that’s not true. He’s distressed, and rightly so, with what he's going through. He’s young yet, you both are. You’ll see.”

Derek wants to roll his eyes but he was taught to show respect where it’s due. He and Sherice may technically both be at the top of their respective pack hierarchy but he’s not foolish enough to think he’s anywhere near her level. The Harrison pack appear to be peace loving and free wheeling, and they are, but they’re still predators. They aren’t afraid to protect what’s theirs when necessary. And they’ve not only survived but thrived under her leadership for decades. He’d do well to take anything she gives him and run with it.

“I hope you’re right,” he says, letting his gaze fall back to where Aurora and Stiles are now sitting cross-legged on the cushions, doing some sort of meditation. Stiles’ face looks pained as he concentrates on whatever they’re trying to achieve, before he opens his eyes and his shoulders sink. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be working.

“But this is different,” he continues, quieter. “He doesn’t want the baby. He hates me for doing this to him.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t think that anyone’s ever asked me that.”

Sherice smiles and leans back, waiting. Derek huffs out a breath. “What happened to, I should take more time to make decisions?”

Sherice waves him off. “Everyone knows what they want. They just might not know how to get it.”

“I want him to be back to normal, then.”

She nods. “Do you want the baby?” When he stiffens in his seat, sitting up straighter, she gives him a knowing smile. “There’s no right or wrong answer, dear. ”

“What I want and what it needs are far different things.” He sighs, “I’m not...” _good enough_ , he doesn’t say it but he can tell she knows anyway.

She pats his knee again. “You’ll figure it out.”

She leaves him alone then, and Stiles’ heartbeat draws his attention back out across the lawn. They’re still meditating but he’s obviously in pain. Derek leaves his book and lemonade on the table and walks out to them.

“You’re blocking my sun,” Stiles says when he reaches them.

Aurora is chanting in front of Stiles but she peeks one eye open to look up. “Hello Derek,” she says, too sweetly. She’s not his biggest fan. He can relate.

He nods to her and says to Stiles, “You’re done for today.”

“Oh thank god,” he says under his breath, shoulders slumping. He looks to Aurora and bows his head, “Namaste.”

She returns the gesture. “Namaste, Stiles. Be well.”

Derek helps him up stand and walk back to the house. “What did you and Aurora work on?”

“You know, when you say her name, you make it sound like an STD or a world plague.” He can see the corners of Stiles’ lips turn up, but Derek doesn’t return the smile.

“I just don’t think she’s doing enough to help. Or that yoga is going to lead to a magic awakening or whatever.”

“I’m better,” Stiles says, shrugging. He winces on the first step leading up to the house, and Derek narrows his eyes at him.

“Better isn’t the same thing as healed,” Derek mutters. “I thought she was...”

Stiles picks up when he trails off. “Going to have one conversation with me and give me all the answers about magic? She could have done that over the phone. It’s more internal than that, Derek.” He makes a frustrated noise, like he wants to believe what he’s saying. “I’m working on it. She’s helping me find an anchor.”

Derek glances at him, thinking. “Wolves have to have one too.”

Stiles nods. “She’s been explaining it to me. I guess in theory I get how it works. Like, I remember back in the good old days when Scott was still a totally unstable, hormonal creature of the night, Allison helped him. But we found that out by accident. How did you find yours?”

Derek’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher than he intends. But this is important, he knows it is. “Which one?”

“You’ve got more than one?” Stiles asks, intrigued.

“I’ve had two. The one that used to work doesn’t anymore. So I found a new one.”

“You can do that?” Stiles asks, surprised. “So you’ve got double the experience at finding one. Did you have like, an epiphany? Were there flashing neon signs? Inkblot tests? Word association games? ‘Does the word ‘muffin’ make you feel calmer’, that kind of thing?”

“It’s a _feeling_ , Stiles,” Derek sighs, trying to figure out how to voice it. For wolves, it’s instinctual—it had been easier to explain to his pack, because they understood on a level he’s not sure humans can comprehend. “It’s...” He hesitates, wavering, not sure if he’s explaining it properly. “It’s the thing that feels the most real to you.”

Stiles screws his face up, not seeming sure how he feels about that answer. “What’s yours then?” he asks, apparently trying a different tactic.

“Now? Anger.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Stiles asks, giving him a slight smile. He doesn’t laugh, though, and Derek’s grateful for that. “What about before?”

Derek breaths in through his nose. “Family.”

...

...

Derek wakes up sometime in the middle of the night—there are no clocks here, anywhere, so he’s lost almost all sense of time these days—but the moon is hanging high overhead, bathing the room in its glow. He winces, rolling his neck and shifting to try and find anything resembling a comfortable position in the chair.

After weeks of this, he’s pretty sure no such position exists.

He’d slept on the floor one night, but it had been even worse, the sounds of the rest of the pack around the house reverberating through the floorboards and keeping him up all night. He’s thought about asking Stiles if he can share the bed, but he doesn’t want to rock that boat anymore than he already has, especially now that he knows putting Stiles on edge amplifies the pain.

“Before I leave here, I am going to _burn_ you,” he whispers to the chair, shifting again. He swears it gets extra lumpy, just to spite him.

He glances over to where Stiles is asleep, and there’s a layer of sweat broken out on his forehead. The room doesn’t feel particularly hot to him, but he is a werewolf, so he moves to open the window and let in the cooler night air. Behind him, Stiles’ breath catches before he lets out a low, ragged whimper of pain.

Derek freezes. Stiles still gets exhausted easily, but he hasn’t had any episodes here at the Harrison’s that even compare to the ones back home. It’s been a long time since Derek’s heard a noise like that from him, and it makes his heart jump into his throat. “Stiles,” he whispers, just in case he’s overreacting, and moving closer to press a hand to his forehead. He’s burning up.

Stiles moans quietly at the touch. Derek brings his other hand to the back of his neck, and he stands there for a while, taking as much of the pain as he can. When he pulls his hand away, Stiles whines in the back of his throat, “Don’t.”

“Stiles?” Derek’s not sure what he means. He leans over to whisper, not wanting his voice to jar Stiles’ headache. “What do you need? Should I get Aurora?”

“Stay,” Stiles mumbles. He’s trembling even though he’s covered in blankets. “S'better when you’re close.”

Derek’s not sure if he’s even awake, and he’d really hate for Stiles to wake up and get angry at him for this, but he meant it when he said he’ll do whatever it takes to help Stiles. Anything to lessen the burden.

“Derek?” Stiles’ voice is barely a whisper.

“I’m here.” He moves to sit on the edge of the bed. “What did Aurora say to do when this happens?”

“What?” Stiles says, and when he opens his eyes, they’re glassy and unfocused.

Derek brushes his hair away from his forehead. “Hasn’t Aurora taught you how to channel... fuck, I don’t know, the dirt or something ridiculous like that?”

“Derek,” he sounds pained, “Can’t. Not now. Hurts too much.” He screws his eyes shut, grimacing, but he reaches out to weakly grasp at Derek’s arm. “Please.” Derek knows it’s bad when _Stiles_ can’t use full sentences. He can’t say no to him when he’s like this.

“Okay,” he says, climbing onto the bed and carefully lying in front of Stiles. His hands hover momentarily, unsure of where to touch, if he’s even allowed to touch. But Stiles asked him, and he needs him, so he inches closer, putting his arms around Stiles to bring him forward. Derek’s tense until Stiles sighs against his chest and he can feel him relax a little in his arms.

“Better,” Stiles whispers.

“You promise you’re not going to maim me in the morning?” he asks, rubbing one hand over Stiles’ back. He’s shivering against Derek, even as his shirt is plastered to his skin with a layer of sweat.

“Promise,” Stiles says, burrowing in closer until they’re pressed tightly together. Derek’s still not sure Stiles is really aware of what’s going on, that maybe he’s just seeking out the heat radiating off Derek. He mumbles something into Derek’s shirt.

Derek frowns. “What?”

“I said, why do you keep sleeping in the chair?”

Well, he’s definitely awake, even if he’s possibly lost to the hysteria of a fever. Derek’s also pretty sure that _because I’m scared you’ll kick me out_ is not what Stiles needs to hear right now. “You steal all the covers,” he lies.

“Nu uh,” Stiles mumbles. “Do not.”

Derek snorts, pressing his nose into Stiles’ hair. He can feel his own heart rate starting to settle now. “You kick too, asshole.”

Stiles makes some noise that Derek thinks is meant to sound indignant. “Liar,” he says, jabbing a finger at Derek. But they’re pressed so close together he mostly just winds up bunching his fingers in the fabric of Derek’s shirt. “I am a gentleman when I sleep.”

“Did you eat the mushrooms in the garden today? Or are you just more confused than usual? Because you are wrong. So wrong.”

Stiles lets out a small laugh and it releases something in Derek’s chest. He’s only been in the bed with him for a few minutes and Stiles already seems better. His heart rate is steadying again as he falls back asleep in Derek’s arms and his breathing doesn’t sound as ragged. It’s hard to believe Derek’s proximity helps this much but the evidence is clear. Derek’s just glad he can finally do something right. That he can make things easier on him.

When he wakes up the next morning, Stiles has turned and Derek’s arm is draped over his side, hand resting on his round belly. Derek realizes with a start what he’s doing but he has half a mind to stop himself from flinching away, so as not to wake Stiles. Derek’s heart is beating in his ears, and he doesn’t know if he should leave or simply move his hand but something kicks under his palm and he startles, waking Stiles and probably half the house when he jerks back, saying, “shit,” way too loud.

He knows Stiles is awake now but he’s not moving to look at Derek or making fun of him or doing anything, really, and Derek would really like him to just say something so he can stop freaking out.

“Sorry,” Derek says, for lack of anything better.

“It’s...” Stiles hesitates, voice thick with sleep. “It’s okay.”

Derek pauses, not wanting to use up all his goodwill from Stiles in one fell swoop, but he has _permission_ , and something about that is a little intoxicating. His hand lingers in the air for a moment longer, but eventually he settles it back on Stiles’ stomach, letting out a shaky breath.

“Has it kicked a lot?” Derek asks, suddenly fascinated. Stiles never volunteers much information about the pregnancy, and Derek’s usually too afraid to push, but this feels different.

Stiles shrugs in his arms. “Sometimes. Especially when you piss me off.”

“Really?” Derek asks, frowning, then pauses. “Are you just trying to make me feel guilty?”

He doesn’t have to see Stiles’ face to know there’s a small, tentative smile there. “Maybe. Is it working?”

Derek sighs, “Yes,” because when doesn’t he feel guilty.

Stiles laughs and it moves his body enough that Derek can feel movement, like a fluttering, under his hand.

“Whoa,” Stiles says, surprised.

“What?” Derek asks, concerned. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“Yes, shut up.” Derek can practically hear his eyes roll. “That was... new.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think—Jesus, this is so weird—I think it knows it’s you.”

Derek’s throat dries up, and he wouldn’t know what to say even if he could speak. He stays still, keeping his hand on Stiles’ stomach and focusing on his breathing. He’s not going to freak out.

Eventually, Stiles goes pliant in his arms again, fidgeting a little. “I’m going back to sleep,” he says. “You can stay there if you want.”

Derek holds his breath, still too afraid to ruin the moment by speaking. He can hear when Stiles’ breathing evens out and he’s drifted off to sleep, but it still takes another minute before Derek presses his nose against his shoulder and forces himself to relax.

He’s so screwed.

...

...

“Picture it in your mind’s eye,” Aurora says, from where she and Stiles are sitting cross-legged in the grass. “I want you to feel the pain coursing through you.”

“No problem there,” Stiles mutters under his breath. Derek’s pretty sure that’s for his benefit, as he catches Stiles squinting one eye open to look over at him, smiling. Derek mouths ‘pay attention’ back at him.

Aurora is swirling her arms in the air, like she’s trying to collect dust or something. Derek’s never really sure what she’s doing. “Find your anchor. Gather the energy around you. Feel it feeding that pain. Converting it. Let nature in!”

“It’s not going to be like a tribble, right? Feed the pain and it multiplies?”

Stiles looks at Derek with a smirk and Derek rolls his eyes but when he looks over, Aurora isn’t amused.

“Stiles,” she says, and Derek’s never heard her sound so serious. “Why are you here?”

Stiles must notice the change in her too because his expression turns guilty. He focuses his attention on her. “To learn?” he tries, grimacing.

She sighs, exasperated, and suddenly Derek likes her a lot more. Besides Sherice, everyone here is too carefree, they’re the sixties personified. Derek doesn’t have a problem with that, per se, but he has a hard time taking anything they say seriously. How is Stiles supposed to learn anything if they act like all things are beautiful and blessed and whatever the fuck they say about _everything_. The world is not sunshine and roses, it’s dark and painful and evil.

Derek can personally attest to that.

“Why are you here?” she asks again, hands resting peacefully on her knees. She’s not angry, but she’s not messing around either. Derek knows a challenge when he sees one.

“Because I need to learn how to channel my abilities into something the baby can use... so I don’t die?”

She nods and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. “I know how we may seem to outsiders,” she waves her hand, as if to encompass the commune as a whole. “Many of us choose to live as we do because of what we have seen and been through. We are werewolves and humans allied with them, and the world has been taught we are dangerous. We have been hunted and persecuted just for existing.” She pauses, as if weighing something, then turns to look Derek squarely in the eyes and it turns his blood cold. “Derek, perhaps, knows this more than any of us.”

Stiles sucks in a breath but Derek can’t move to look at him until Aurora finally turns her gaze away from him. He feels like she’s just looked into his soul and it sends a shiver down his spine.

Stiles looks distraught when he finally looks at him and their eyes lock for another for a moment.

“We choose to live as we do,” she continues and Stiles looks back at her, paler than he already was, “in spite of the dangers to our kind. Don’t mistake our everyday attitudes for naïveté. Sherice decided a very long time ago to not allow the negative, vile behaviors of the world to influence us. We don’t submit to fear. And that is our _choice_. This is our sanctuary.”

She’s watching him closely. “Do you understand?”

He nods, face serious for once.

“Good,” she smiles and raises her arms again, circling them above her. “Now, again.”

Derek and Stiles share another look and then Stiles takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, focusing. Derek’s not sure what just happened, but he thinks it was good. Very good.


	6. Chapter 6

“Oh my god, we’ve been transported into the 1800’s.”

Derek shoots him a look that Stiles is pretty sure means _I told you so_ , but he scoffs, motioning to the washboard and tub. “When I offered to do laundry, this is not what I meant.”

“You shouldn’t be offering at all,” Derek sighs, setting the basket of clothes onto the table beside the metal tub.

Realistically, Stiles knows that Derek’s right. He’s had more energy this week, enough that he’s even started _eating_ without it tasting like poison going down, but even he knows he’s pushing himself. But he’d wanted to give something back for all the progress he’s made already (though, okay, some of that is to do with the fact that the baby seems to like Derek being around, like, a lot), and it’s the first time he’s felt up to that task, so he’d thought offering to do a load of laundry would suffice.

“Seriously,” he says, making handmotions toward the washboard again. “Who would have thought that offering to do laundry would mean... this?”

Derek’s staring at him. “Did you really think these people would have a washing machine?”

“They have _electricity_ ,” Stiles argues. “And running water. I know they’re all about living off the land and forsaking bacon, but they’re not barbarians!”

“Sit,” Derek huffs, but it’s not angry. He hasn’t even pretended to be really annoyed by Stiles in awhile, and it’s weird, but Stiles kind of likes it. Derek stomps off to get a bucket of water while Stiles makes himself comfortable on the ground.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Derek asks, dumping the water and the homemade laundry soap in, mixing them together with his bare hand.

Stiles smiles sweetly at him. “No, it just happened to work out in my favor.”

“Funny how that worked out,” Derek says, fixing Stiles with a hard look. It takes everything Stiles has to keep a straight face and not to laugh.

Derek starts dumping the clothes in the tub, with more force than necessary, and rubbing them up and down the washboard. Stiles has never seen anyone _violently_ do laundry before, but it’s fascinating. Especially since Stiles can see the muscles under Derek’s shirt moving and straining, and there are honest-to-god soap suds covering most of his arms now.

Stiles isn’t really sure when he started finding Derek attractive again. He’s pretty sure a month ago, that wasn’t the case. Actually, he’s positive that a month ago all he was feeling towards Derek was white-hot anger. Maybe Aurora’s lessons about learning to “let go of things, like anger and iPods” is getting through to him. Because his body is definitely having a reaction to watching Derek bend over a metal tub, scrubbing viciously at a pink dress.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, looking over at him. “Your heart rate sped up. Do you need to go inside?”

Stiles wills himself not to blush and clears his throat. “No, no, sorry, I’m fine.” He nods to the wet article of clothing Derek’s clutching in his hands. “Are you aware those are boxers?”

Derek drops it instantly back into the water, making a distressed noise, water splashing out at Stiles.

This time, Stiles doesn’t hide his laughter, wiping the suds off his knee. “If this is how you react to gross things, what are you going to do with a baby?”

When he looks up, Derek's not smiling anymore, but he doesn't look angry either. "Uh, sorry," Stiles says, rubbing at the back of his head, looking over to the water sloshing in the bucket. "Never mind."

"No, it's okay," Derek says. He returns to the wash, scrubbing the fabric against the washboard. He keeps his head down when he speaks again. "I have no idea what I'm going to do with it, honestly."

"But you're planning to... keep it?"

"What else am I supposed to do with it? You can't put a werewolf baby up for adoption."

"Would you, though? If it was an option?" Stiles isn't sure why he's talking about this with Derek. It's probably a sore subject for him, after Stiles made his intentions clear. But—and he doesn't know if it’s some kind of instinctual thing because he's carrying the baby—he's finding he's curious about Derek's plans, about what's going to happen to it.

"No," Derek says without hesitation.

"Is it a pack thing?" Stiles asks.

Derek looks at him, a little bewildered. "No, it's... It's pack but it's more than that too. He's mine. My kid."

"He?" Stiles quirks an eyebrow.

"Or she. Whatever." Derek looks away then.

"You'll figure it out," he says, and he's aiming for reassuring but he's not sure it comes across.

"I thought you said I was the worst at everything." Derek looks amused now and it makes Stiles smile.

"You really are," he says, laughing and Derek throws the sopping wet boxers at his head.

...

...

Aurora says he has a focus problem. No shit. Every teacher and doctor and adult he's ever encountered has said exactly that. Although, he'll cut her some slack because his focus has been exceptionally worse since he stopped taking his medication. He wasn't going to stop, figuring a werewolf baby couldn't suffer any ill effects, and he really needed it. Finals are a bitch anyway, and finals during a stressful inconceivable pregnancy are about as worse as it can get. Then Scott found out he hadn't stopped and pitched a fit so epic Stiles agreed to go off them until after.

So yeah. Focus. It's a problem.

He's sitting cross legged on a bean bag he found behind the barn. Aurora gave him explicit instructions to find a secluded spot to meditate so he can focus on his focus. She actually said that. He laughs to himself, just thinking about it and a few chickens cluck their agreement.

He's in the chicken coop. He finds it oddly soothing, the constant rapid motion of fifteen chickens scattering around him, making all kinds of noises. The outside commotion helps the jumble inside his head and he's actually feeling calmer just sitting here.

He kind of can’t believe Derek let him out of his sights—not that he has any doubt Derek knows exactly where he is. He's doing a lot better, though. He had a migraine last night but Derek did his thing and it eased a few hours sooner than usual.

He closes his eyes, straightens his back, and rests the back of his hands on his knees, palms up, thumb and middle finger touching—Aurora said that the position isn't necessary to achieve proper meditation but Stiles likes to go with the cliché, it helps him feel less ridiculous.

He inhales deep through his nose, exhales from his mouth, and repeats, counting each one, envisioning the air traveling down into his lungs and back out.

At the 67 count he notices it, there's an electricity to the air around him, the hairs on his arms prickling up like there's lightning nearby. A spark of color dances on his eyelids for a split second, followed by another. The chickens start fluttering about, clucking loudly as they clearly feel the change as well.

He knows this means he's tapped into something and he has to tamp down the gleeful feeling at finally getting it right because he doesn't want it to slip through his fingers. Now that he has it, he thinks about the constant ache in his joints and muscles and wills the energy to seep it away.

It's working, he thinks it’s working, and he feels like he's going to bubble over with excitement because he feels amazing, for the first time in months.

There’s a stampede of noise just in the distance, and Stiles has never gotten this far before, that’s new, but new is good, because he’s _not in pain_.

“Rargh!”

That’s... weird.

The flashes of color drain out suddenly, leaving him with just the darkness from his eyes being closed. The electricity is still there, humming like static, but just out of Stiles’ grasp. He blinks his eyes open, looking to the source of the noise - Seagull, Aurora and Rufus Bear’s daughter, is standing in front of the door to the coop, with her back to him and looking ready to pounce at something. Her long, unruly brown locks are whipping everywhere in the wind, surely getting in her eyes and face, and making her look wild.

He assumes she’s playing with her brother, but Derek appears a split second later, gathering her up in his arms and putting a hand over her mouth, concerned, before his gaze flickers over to Stiles. “Not over here, remember? Let’s go play somewhere else,” Derek whispers, and Stiles only catches it because the chickens have gone quiet now, bewildered by all the change.

Derek casts another glance at him that looks incredibly guilty before he carries Seagull away quickly, leaving Stiles alone again. He can still see them from where he’s sitting, as Derek carries her far enough away from him that if Stiles tried, he could easily block out the noise and concentrate on finding that sweet spot again.

He finds himself leaning closer to the open door on the coop instead, watching as Seagull takes off running the second Derek sets her down again. She’s half-shifted now, to give herself more speed, and Derek feigns surprise before he darts after her, letting her dodge and outrun him as she squeals with laughter.

She uses her claws to scale a tree at an impressive rate, grinning down at Derek from a branch. He can see Derek crossing his arms in front of his chest, and Stiles finds himself chuckling, because Derek’s stern face isn’t even intimidating a four year old. That’s how un-scary he is.

Stiles has seen wolves play before. Scott and Isaac tousle all the time, wrestling each other or speeding through the woods while Stiles gripes about how _rude_ it is to kick up dirt in your human friend’s eye. But he’s never seen _Derek_ this playful. He imagines he must have been, with as many brothers and sisters and cousins as he grew up with. They probably drove his mother mad, tearing through the house, the same way Seagull and her brother Lief do.

It’s a different side of Derek. A glimpse at how things might have been if his childhood had turned out differently.

_A glimpse at how things might be for him and Stiles if things were different now._

“Dewek!” Seagull shouts, then takes a flying leap from the branch, arms outstretched and not the least bit terrified about the drop, because Derek catches her with werewolf-fast reflexes, bouncing her in his arms while she laughs, loud and happy. It makes Stiles’ chest seize up.

It’s totally the hormones, but Stiles can actually picture it right now, the two of them with a baby, and Derek playing with it like this in the garden outside his dad’s house. All full of smiles and laughter.

The word Lennon had used flashes in his mind: _mates_.

But that’s not his life. He and Derek are getting along, but they’re not a _family_ , and they’re sure as hell not mates. Christ, they’re basically just two stupid guys who happened to get pregnant because of a full moon and sheer dumb luck. This whole situation is so fucked up in the first place that the idea is preposterous. Really. As crazy as that time he and Scott had told his dad they were going to pool their money together to move to Argentina, because of penguins (which had totally made sense at the time, okay, but has been a great source of amusement at any sort of family gathering since).

He scoffs at himself for even thinking it.

“Got you,” Derek growls into Seagull’s hair, tossing her up again before setting her down in the grass. She runs away, but when Derek goes after her again, she doubles back and barrels into his leg, with enough force and surprise that it really does knock Derek down.

“No, I’ve got you!” she shrieks, climbing onto his chest and standing on top of him with her hands on her hips, like she’s claiming him for France or something. Stiles grins so wide that his face actually hurts.

He knows he should go back to working on channeling his energy, but he finds that he can’t look away. And besides, he feels lighter just watching them, even better than he’d felt with the help of the magic.


	7. Chapter 7

“Why is the goat wearing a necklace?” Derek asks as he sits down beside Stiles at the busy kitchen table. Okay, maybe it’s not exactly a necklace. It’s more like a lei, made out of vines and brightly colored flowers from the forest, but it’s hanging around Eucalyptus’ neck, and she keeps trying to nibble at it, only it isn’t low enough.

Derek sets a plate of food in front of them—it’s some kind of avocado and spinach salad, and Derek uses his spoon to start moving scattered pieces of tofu from his plate to Stiles’, because he _refuses_ to eat tofu, no matter how starving he is here.

“It’s her birthday,” Stiles says, and slaps Derek’s hand. “Stop giving me more food. It makes it look like I’m eating even less, and then Aurora gives me that _look_.”

“You should eat more,” Derek says, not stopping from shoveling the last of the tofu onto Stiles’ plate and ignoring how Stiles rolls his eyes at him.

“I am eating more,” he huffs.

Truthfully, Derek knows that he is. His appetite still isn’t good, but Stiles hasn’t complained about having to eat in over a week, and he’s started filling out a little again. Derek would never tell Stiles he thinks it might be his proximity having such a positive effect on both him and the baby, for fear of jinxing it, but he likes the idea. And he likes the results more. He gives Stiles a small smile. “I know.”

Derek picks at his salad, thinking about how he’d kill for a steak, and watches as several of the pack members raise Eucalyptus up in the air, who seems content to let them do whatever, unlike any time Derek approaches her. They’ve started singing _For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow_ , with Rufus’ surprisingly soulful baritone voice standing out in particular.

“I think he might love Eucalyptus more than Aurora,” Derek says, and to be left, Stiles snorts, surprised. “Maybe more than his _kids_.”

“Nah,” Stiles says, and when Derek looks at him, he’s smiling. “They’re just best friends. Like a boy and his dog, only, it would probably be weird for a werewolf to have a pet dog, huh?”

Derek raises one brow back at him. “Why? Because we’re both _canines_? That’s what you’re going with?”

Stiles waves his hand. “You can probably communicate, right? I mean, I know Scott can’t, but you can turn into an actual wolf, so it’s probably different. If you can communicate with something you’ve got a collar on, that’s kind of like... slavery, right?”

Derek stares at him for a moment, then turns back toward the others. Rufus is feeding grapes to Eucalyptus, who licks his hands and face between greedy handfuls, while Humor (who Derek’s pretty sure is either ironically misnamed or just a terribly spiteful child) tries to steal the rest of the grapes for herself. “Sometimes, I think you just talk because you like the sound of your own voice.”

“You just figured that out?” Stiles asks. “Well, am I wrong though? Did you have pet dogs as a kid?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “No.”

“See? Because it would be _weird_.”

“No,” Derek says, and he’s not really sure why he’s arguing the point. He actually agrees with Stiles that it might be a touch too much for a werewolf to own a _pet dog_ , but Stiles is smiling at him, engaging, and Derek wants to keep that going. He finds he’s been letting himself be roped into more and more of Stiles’ weird tangents lately, just because it makes him feel settled. “My mom just didn’t want to have to take care of a pet.”

“So you had no pets?” Stiles asks, taking a bite of his salad that includes some of the tofu. He doesn’t seem like he hates it anymore, and Derek can’t even fathom that. He winces on Stiles’ behalf. “Even I had a gerbil. Until it went crazy and chewed its own tail off and got out of the cage. I think it lived in the wall for another year.”

Derek stares at him. “Oh my _god_.”

Stiles waves him off. “I didn’t make it go crazy, okay? But... my dad wouldn’t let me get any more pets after that. He said, ‘when you find the last one, we’ll talk’. But how was that a valid excuse for not getting a pet eight years later? Like, even if Boris hadn’t escaped, he’d have totally been dead by then. Did he want me to go dig up some rodent remains?”

“Never get another pet,” Derek tells him, shaking his head. “Please.”

Stiles chuckles a little, and one of the bulkier wolves—Pickles—sits down to his other side, making Stiles have to scoot closer to Derek, until their arms and shoulders are pressed together. Stiles smiles at Derek, shrugging. “I was nine, okay? And it was totally not my fault.”

Eucalyptus bleats loudly as Aurora and Lennon bring out a small cake—Derek makes sure not to get his own hopes up for _actual food_ , because it’s obviously going to the goat, and the last cake at the Harrison’s had been carob, not chocolate.

Derek really misses a simpler time, when he didn’t know what carob was.

“I didn’t think Rufus celebrated his birthday,” Derek says, watching them set the cake on the floor. Eucalyptus sniffs at it, until Rufus digs his fingers into it and holds some out for her to eat it out of his hands. “I heard him ranting that it’s wrong to view accomplishments in terms of time on the earth, for we are but a drop in the larger pail of her history, or something.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, but he said Eucalyptus doesn’t share his views, so it’s not his right to deny her a proper celebration.”

Derek raises a brow at him, and Stiles laughs quietly, his shoulder shaking against Derek’s with the movement. “I’m just repeating what I heard, don’t look at me like that.”

Eucalyptus bleats happily as she digs into the cake now, and Derek shakes his head slowly. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Scott this happened. If Isaac and Boyd find out I’m at a goat’s birthday party, I will never live it down.”

...

...

Derek can remember full moons from when he was younger—how much more alive everything had felt, with his family gathered together and feeling the moon’s addictive sway as a pack. Everything was always over-amplified, like the remnants of a dream. They usually spent the whole night chasing each other through the woods near the house, trying to burn off excess energy, and baying at the moon until they were too exhausted to stand. They’re some of his happiest memories.

Those experiences can’t even compete with how the Harrison’s handle full moons, apparently.

There’s a bonfire blazing in one of the fields outside the house, and the entire pack is gathered there, with blankets spread out around the grounds. Some of the pack members are dancing, doing some ritual that apparently involves taking off their tops off to celebrate the Harvest Moon that’s rising in the sky, red and _alive_. Rufus Bear is settled on one of the blankets, leading some of them in a group rendition of fucking _Moon River_ , while Aurora tries to teach Eucalyptus to dance. At least, Derek’s pretty sure that’s what she’s doing. Maybe she’s having a seizure.

Some of the kids have gotten their hands on fireworks, and Derek eyes them warily as they laugh, running further away from the bonfire to light them and set the night sky ablaze with showers of light. No one else seems concerned.

The rest of the kids are chasing after Tangerine, who’s got a bottle of bubbles and is spinning in a circle, leading them in some sort of a game.

“This is like a scene from True Blood,” Stiles says, eyes wide as he sits beside Derek on one of the blankets. Derek follows his gaze to where a couple not far from them are getting busy with second base, and seeming intent on moving into the home stretch.

Someone handed Stiles a bottle of wine a few minutes ago, but he’s obviously not touching it, just playing with the label (it says organic, but what around here _doesn’t_ say that?). “So when do the ritual sacrifices begin?”

“You’re hilarious,” Derek deadpans.

“Who would have thought a bunch of vegetarian, hippie werewolves could party?”

Two teenagers who are tussling, half-shifted and play-snarling at each other, collapse onto the ground beside Stiles, and Derek glares at them until they get the idea and move to play somewhere else. “Not really my scene,” he sniffs, which makes Stiles laugh so hard he winds up leaning against Derek, almost doubling over.

“Oh my god, you made a joke that’s actually funny. The world is ending now, isn’t it?”

Derek pushes him with his foot. “You just admitted I’m funny. I’m pretty sure it _has_ to end now.”

The smile Stiles gives him makes Derek feel light-headed.

He nudges Derek’s shoulder and points toward the house. “Go get me some juice, asshole. Quick, before the world ends.”

Derek stands, and has to step over two sleeping, naked wolves, to make his way back toward the house. He’s aware that he’s letting himself get too comfortable here. They’re not a family; he’s not even sure he and Stiles are _friends_ again, or that they ever were. They seem to have gone from foes to allies to fuck buddies to... parents. _Jesus._ The other shoe is going to drop, and soon, because Stiles’ stomach is getting rounder now with every passing day. It’s a reminder that the deadline of the little fantasy Derek’s been letting himself lead is coming to an end, very shortly.

But they seem to be getting along now, and Derek just wants to hold on to that. For as long as he can.

“You look happy,” Sherice says, when he makes his way back outside, grasping Stiles’ glass of fruit juice.

Derek nods. “Stiles is doing better. We really can’t thank you enough for all your help.” He’s still not convinced that Aurora’s lessons have gotten through to Stiles, but just being here seems to make everything easier. Stiles hasn’t had a headache in a few days, he’s eating more like his old self, and he’s been letting Derek sleep in the bed with him. The proximity of Derek to the baby seems to be helping a lot, and that fills him with a pride that he can’t put to words.

Things feel okay. They feel good.

Sherice squeezes his shoulder. “You’re both welcome as long as you want.”

Derek begins maneuvering his way back to Stiles, who’s now sharing his blanket with two of the youngest members of the pack, their heads ducked together. He has to dodge Rufus, who goes in for a full body hug that leaves Derek _squirming_ , but eventually he settles back down beside Stiles on the blanket.

Seagull and Lief are braiding together daisy chains under Stiles’ tutelage. Derek raises one brow at him, and Stiles shrugs back in return, giving him a sheepish smile.

“Do you wanna make daisies, Dewek?” Seagull asks, holding one up to him, and Derek can feel Stiles watching him, probably assuming he’s going to tell her werewolves don’t play with daisies or something. But he’s not a total asshole, and besides, he likes Seagull. She reminds him of his younger sister, when she’d been her age.

He accepts it with a smile instead. “I would love to make daisies.”

Derek tries to copy their movements, tying some of the stems together, but it’s just rather... droopy.

“You’re terrible at that,” Stiles informs him, which makes the kids laugh.

“I’ll give you mine,” Lief says, holding it out to him. Derek’s pretty sure this whole daisy-chain business was his sister’s idea anyway, as he doesn’t seem overly enthusiastic. He accepts it anyway.

“Thanks.”

Seagull stands up, bouncing a little on her bare feet. “Then I want to give mine to Stwiles,” she says, reaching over to put the crown of daisies on his head. Stiles has to help her get it affixed, and then he straightens up, using an over-exaggerated voice.

“Well? How do I look?”

The kids laugh again, but then get distracted as the moon is high enough in the sky that Sherice starts howling—leading the entire pack to join in. Stiles raises a brow at Derek when he doesn’t participate.

“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t want to.”

Derek narrows his eyes back at him before joining in on the howl. Stiles smirks beside him, then watches as Lief and Seagull take off running toward where the others are setting up the fireworks.

“You’re really good with them,” Derek says, and he doesn’t mean it that way, but he can see Stiles stiffen a little at his words, then tries for deflection.

“Yeah, well. It helps when your best friend is basically an overgrown six year old.”

Derek takes in a sharp breath, not wanting to let this conversation veer towards something serious, not tonight. “You’re no better,” he says, aiming to keep his tone light.

“Wrong. Mentally, I’m totally at least eight.” It makes Derek crack a smile.

Stiles turns away to look at the fire—they’re sitting a little closer than most so Stiles won’t get cold—and he tosses a few pieces of the leftover daisies into it. The glow of the fire lets Derek get a better look at him, and he looks content, features free of the painful tension he’s been carrying for months.

He must see something on Derek’s face when he looks back—probably the fondness he’s feeling. “What?” Stiles asks, abashed instead of angry for a change.

“You look good.” Derek’s not sure what it is but he’s different today. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, actually, a lot.” He starts picking at a loose seam on the quilt covering his legs. “I kind of thought this full moon would be like the last few but it’s totally different.”

“What do you mean?” He hasn’t actually been around Stiles on a full moon in a very long time, since even before this whole mess.

“It’s been pretty—uh, painful, I guess. But I feel good tonight. Like, better than ever.” Stiles seems so surprised, like he never expected to feel well again, and Derek’s just hoping it lasts because he’s forgotten what Stiles looks like when he’s at ease like this.

“Maybe it’s the Harvest Moon?” he offers, after a little too long of just watching Stiles.

“Maybe. I, uh,” he ducks his head, and if it was anyone but Stiles, Derek would think he looks shy. “I think maybe it’s being around you on the full moon. And the pack,” he adds hastily.

Derek looks at his hands, unsure if he’ll be able to control himself if he keeps his eyes on Stiles right now. “I’m glad you’re feeling good.”

“Me too.” Stiles smiles, looking across the lawn at everyone. Derek follows his gaze to see the teenagers have set off the last of their fireworks and have broken off into small groupings. Some are shifting fully and frolicking off into the woods while others are, well, they appear to be having an orgy.

Stiles clears his throat and his voice only cracks a little bit when he speaks. “You can go do your wolf thing. You don’t need to stay here with me.”

“I’m good,” he says, leaning back onto his elbows and stretching his neck back to look up at the moon.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. You know I don’t _need_ to shift during a full moon.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything else and when Derek eventually turns back at him, the look on his face can be clearly classified as _predatory_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're too impatient. here's more!

“Are you sure about this?” Derek asks.

Stiles gives him an answering shove into the bedroom. “Hell yes, do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?”

Derek smirks. “Actually, I do.”

“Fuck you.” Stiles shoves at him until he hits the bed but the bastard uses his strength to stop from falling onto it. Not that Stiles would ever be strong enough, pregnant or not, to push Derek down, werewolf or not. People with muscles are so frustrating.

Derek looks serious again and Stiles really wishes he’d get with the program here. Stiles wants sex and he’s finally feeling like he’s not on the verge of death so he’d really like Derek to stop worrying so damn much.

“Stiles,” Derek says, concern bunched in his shoulders. “This isn’t a good idea. You’re not... I could hurt... Just think for a minute.”

“I have thought about it.” A lot. Lots of thinking about sex. Stiles wants sex, what isn’t Derek getting here? “It’s literally all I’ve thought about for seven fucking months and this is the first time I’m thinking about it while not wanting to curl into a ball and die, so, get with it, Hale.” He snaps his fingers at a wide-eyed Derek. "Pants. Off.”

Derek hesitates another second more, and Stiles narrows his eyes at him, daring him to disobey. He relents this time, and quickly starts working on getting his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, shimmying them down his legs. “That’s what you get for wearing tight pants all the time,” Stiles says, watching him struggle momentarily and making Derek snort.

“It’s not too late for me to leave, you know.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles huffs, reaching out to grab the bottom of Derek’s shirt and trying to wrestle it off him. “ _Why_ are you still talking?”

Derek rolls his eyes and finally relents, tugging his shirt the rest of the way off and tossing it onto the floor, making Stiles suck in a deep breath. They’ve been sleeping in the same bed for a few weeks, but Derek’s always stupidly insistent on wearing a shirt. Just the sight of his chest now is making Stiles nearly double over from _want_ , which is another symptom of just how long it’s been since they’ve done this.

“Are you just going to stand there staring?” Derek asks, looking smug. Stiles has some brilliant comeback that’s going to wipe the expression off his face, he really does, but Derek leans in to kiss him, hard, and Stiles forgets what thinking is.

Derek has always been an amazing kisser; he knows when to be tender or when Stiles needs the rough burn of it, which would be now. He places his hands on the sides of Stiles' head, tilting it to deepen the kiss, slotting their bodies together.

Stiles has never been anything but a string bean, as his mom called him, and he's barely even hugged anyone since his stomach grew this large—except for Rufus, who hugs everyone, _all the time_ —so it's strange to have Derek press against him with this bulge between them. Derek is either smart enough (ha! no) to not say anything or he doesn't notice because he's not moving to pull away or act like anything is different between them. Stiles is glad. The last thing he wants is for Derek to treat him delicately right now.

Stiles groans, "Get on the bed."

This time, there’s no hesitation as Derek crawls onto the bed and lays down. He arches his hips up enough to pull his briefs off, tossing them on the floor with the rest of his clothes, and then looks at Stiles—just waiting.

Stiles wants to _devour_ him.

He strips his clothes off and nearly tips over when he has to bend to get his pant leg unstuck from his ankle—his balance has been off lately—but Derek's there in an instant to steady him.

"I've got you," Derek says with a hand on his bicep.

Stiles smiles. "Thanks."

Derek's fingers trail down his arm and take his hand and he pulls Stiles over to the chair he had been sleeping on.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks, an amused smile in his lips.

"Sit down."

"Why?"

Derek makes a sound that's too playful to be a real growl but it makes Stiles laugh. "Shut up and sit down so I can suck your cock. Jesus, you are so difficult," Derek huffs.

"Testy," Stiles teases but he sits down as told.

Derek kneels and runs his hands up and down Stiles’ thighs a couple of times, then he grabs underneath them at the base of his ass and pulls Stiles to sit at the edge for a better angle. 

Stiles sucks in a deep breath as Derek pushes his legs further apart, leaning forward to press his mouth against the inside of Stiles’ thigh. Stiles pushes his fingers into Derek’s hair, giving a tug and trying to guide him to where he wants him.

“I’m getting there,” Derek huffs, even as he leans into the touch and wraps one hand around the base of his cock. Stiles groans, tilting his head back and having to close his eyes to steady himself. The baby seems to be anti-mastrubation, as any time Stiles has jerked off in the last few months, it hasn’t even been pleasurable, like it just couldn’t at least leave him with _that_.

For weeks, it seems, he’s been watching Derek with a lustful eye but every time he gets hard, it just adds to the pain and he ends up feeling worse and guilty. This feels entirely different, though. The anticipation is making him crazy with an energy he hasn’t felt since before this happened. He’s tingling, every touch of Derek’s lips to his skin sending a shiver through him.

“Get there faster,” he says, giving another sharp tug.

Derek does growl this time but he does it against the base of Stiles' cock. He runs his lips along it, growling softly to let the vibrations sink in.

“Seven. Months," Stiles grits out with a punctuating pull on Derek’s hair. The bastard laughs but he obliges and puts his mouth around Stiles’ cock, finally.

Stiles lets out a lewd moan, his head dropping back against the chair. Derek moves down him at an agonizingly slow pace, leaving Stiles to dig the fingers of his free hand into the armrest. “Fuck,” he breathes in sharply.

Derek hums his agreement around him, before he pulls off completely, licking down Stiles’ length.

“If you don’t hurry up,” and even to Stiles’ ears, he sounds desperate, “I am literally going to kill you.”

Derek lifts his head to smirk up at him, their eyes meeting and holding until Derek blinks and looks back down to take his cock into his mouth again, with much more enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” Stiles hisses and lets his hand rest on Derek’s head, loving the way it bobs with him. Derek’s good at this, he’s really _really_ good, but it’s not enough. Stiles feels keyed up, months of frustrations—sexual and other—ready to burst out of him and he just needs to. He needs. “Stop,” he says, pulling at Derek’s hair.

Derek jerks back quickly and, of course, he looks horrified, like he thinks he’s done something terrible to Stiles.

“No, stop with the face,” Stiles says, waving in front of it. “It’s just... not enough. I really need to fuck you.”

Derek’s face literally says ‘oh’ and Stiles laughs at how cute that is on him. “Come on, go,” Stiles says, shooing him toward the bed with a wave. Luckily Derek doesn’t get far because Stiles—fuck his life, seriously—needs help getting out of the chair.

Once Derek’s got him standing, he doesn’t wait for him before crawling onto the bed, on his hands and knees with his back turned to Stiles, like he’s laying himself out bare for Stiles to do whatever he wants with. Whatever he needs. “You’re trying to kill me,” Stiles murmurs, running a hand down Derek’s back and watching, fascinated, as Derek presses back into it.

“What happened to ‘hurrying up’?” Derek asks, in what Stiles thinks is supposed to be an impression of him. It’s terrible.

“You’re lucky you’re hot.” He reaches to squeeze Derek’s ass. “Because you are _not_ funny.”

“That’s okay,” Derek says, laughing a little. “Just don’t get me pregnant.”

“It would serve you right,” he says, slapping Derek’s ass. “But I think we’re good. I don’t have a _knot_.” Then after a beat he says, “Hang on,” and goes to the closet to find his duffle that was shoved in there after he unpacked. He finds the bottle of lube in the outer pocket and brandishes it to Derek, smiling. “Never leave home without it.”

Derek rolls his eyes but they’re crinkled at the edges from his smile and it’s something that always leaves Stiles a little stunned. He really should smile more often.

He climbs onto the bed, with a little more effort that he’d like to admit but in the end, he’s right where he needs to be. He leans over as far as he can reach to press his face against Derek’s back and run his hands along Derek’s sides, making him squirm away from Stiles’ touch. Stiles laughs when Derek mumbles curses at him but he stays there for a second, urgent need for sex be damned, because he loves the way Derek feels under him, ready and wanton, and he’s finding he missed it more than he thought.

Plus Derek is ticklish and that just never gets old.

“Stiles,” Derek says, clearly impatient. But his voice is thick with want, and Stiles rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss against Derek’s back before straightening up.

“You’re going to get what you want, Sour Wolf, relax.” That just makes Derek groan louder, dropping his head down until he gets his breathing under control.

He uncaps the lube and slicks his fingers before he moves one to circle around Derek’s hole, but not pushing in. Derek shifts under him, trying to press back for more than Stiles is giving him.

“Seven months,” Derek growls, echoing Stiles earlier words back at him. That makes Stiles pause briefly, but then Derek growls again, darker.

“You’re no fun,” Stiles informs him, though on the contrary, he thinks Derek is a lot of fun. Especially when he’s amped up like this. He pushes two fingers inside him, knowing Derek can take it, feeling a rush of pleasure at the way Derek lets out a low, guttural moan.

He might have been having a little fun with Derek but the noises he’s making are driving Stiles mad, so has mercy on Derek, and himself, and doesn’t draw it out like he normally would. He withdraws his fingers and slicks his cock with the lube, lining up and pressing in, as perfunctory as possible. Sexual frustration falls directly in the category of ‘desperate times’.

“Shit,” he says, his voice shaking as he works into Derek, who isn’t much better off if the moans coming from him are anything to go by. “Oh my god, dude.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, pushing back.

Stiles obliges him but only because he’s trying to concentrate on fucking his brains out. Which he does, pretty well for being out of practice, if he says so himself.

He digs his fingers into Derek’s hips, and Stiles imagines if he wasn’t a werewolf, he might actually be hurting him. Derek just hisses and rocks his hips back to meet Stiles, desperate for more.

Stiles almost can’t believe this is happening, that he’s feeling well enough to be fucking Derek on the night of the full moon. He doesn’t know what has changed that’s made him feel so much better, and he hopes it lasts, but really, all that matters is Derek shaking under his hands, taking everything Stiles is giving him.

Derek moves to put one hand on his cock, and holy fuck, he’s holding himself up with one hand as Stiles drives into him. Stiles can see the muscles in his shoulder flexing with the movements. He lays a hand between Derek’s shoulder blades to feel his strength under his triskelion.

Derek makes a choked sound and the muscles under Stiles’ hand tense. Just the thought of someone as powerful as Derek coming apart because of Stiles—spastic, loud, annoying _Stiles_ —has Stiles coming harder than ever. It feels like his whole body convulses with the relief he's been desperate for, and he’s not even sure if those noises are coming from him or Derek, but he knows he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t remember Derek coming—he’s belatedly aware that it must have happened, but Stiles is pretty sure his vision whited out at the edges at one point. By the time he’s aware of his surroundings again, Derek has his face pressed into the sheets, still breathing ragged. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says, in awe, as he runs one hand down Derek’s back again before pulling out of him. He falls back enough so that he’s sitting on the bed beside Derek.

Derek grunts in response, shifting further up to lay down, his muscles going lax. Stiles looks down at him, studying. He looks calmer, relaxed, more so than Stiles can ever remember seeing him. The usual tension etched across his features has been replaced by something softer. It makes Stiles _want_ , even if he’s not sure what for.

Something nags at his thoughts, though.

“You weren’t serious when you said it’s been seven months, right?” he asks, suddenly unable to stop himself from broaching the subject, even though Derek’s sex life is none of his business.

Derek rolls onto his side to look at Stiles. His hair is rumbled and Stiles wants to reach out and touch it, but he doesn’t. “I was serious.”

Stiles laughs nervously. “No, for real.”

“Yes, for real,” Derek says, voice a lot more stern than it had been moments before and Stiles wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“Why?” He pauses, trying to figure out what he wants to say and why he even cares. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Derek sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “What are you trying to say, Stiles?”

“We weren’t exclusive or anything.”

“I know.”

“So if you weren’t having sex with me, why weren’t you with anyone else?” Stiles has a problem when it comes to kicking the hornet’s nest, in that he keeps doing it, even though he knows he’s going to get stung.

“Because I didn’t want to,” Derek says, and it looks like he wants to say something else so Stiles shuts his mouth. Derek watches him for a moment, sighs and finally says, “with anyone else.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

No, Stiles was wrong before. He’s not the idiot kicking the hornet’s nest, about to be stung. He’s the asshole hornet, out to sting a hapless werewolf.

Derek rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling and Stiles does him the courtesy of not watching him, even though he desperately wants to read whatever is happening on his face. Although, this is Derek, so it's probably perfectly blank. 

Stiles doesn't say anything else because he's honestly not sure what to say, or even what's happening. After another moment Derek gets up and silently gets dressed. "I'm going to get some water," he says, tone plain. "Do you need anything?"

He looks impassive when Stiles looks at him and it speaks volumes about what he's really feeling, which is hurt. All Stiles can do is shake his head and look away, guilt seizing his throat.

He's not sure when Derek comes back to the room but when he wakes the next morning, Derek's sleeping in the chair again.

... 

...

He's been sitting on the back porch swing for a while, watching Derek help Lennon in the garden and, even from afar, Stiles likes to watch him bend over to weed. Finally having a pleasurable orgasm hasn't really satisfied him like he had hoped. Before, he was resigned to not getting off without it hurting but now that he's had another taste of good, _really good_ sex, he just wants more. He feels like he's sixteen all over again, lustfully watching Derek while sporting wood and not being able to do anything about it.

They've been awkward since that night. Derek's withdrawn, not that Stiles can blame him, after he failed spectacularly at saying _anything_ when Derek basically confessed feelings for him. It was as much of a confession as he's ever really heard from Derek, in regard to true feelings.

Derek's sleeping in the chair again—and Stiles isn’t going to pretend there isn’t a direct correlation between that and how much worse he’s been feeling since—but as much as he misses it, the way Derek's closeness, his warm arms wrapped around him, eased his aching, Stiles can't bring himself to ask Derek back to the bed. It seems the baby can sense their tension, too. His miraculous recovery on the Harvest Moon was apparently a one time thing because the way he was feeling last week, and especially that night, has vanished and he's back to generally feeling like shit. He can only assume that the baby had been drawing extra energy from the Harvest Moon that night. Or something.

He doesn't know what to say to make it better either. He doesn't know what he's even feeling. Whatever feelings he had for Derek months ago, before the blue moon, were always a little hazy, and now after months of hating Derek and blaming him, he's not sure he can even remember enough to decypher them now. He’s not sure how much he can trust Derek’s confession—if it could even be called that—either, considering it had been said in the heat of the moment, and it’s been followed now by avoidance.

He had thought they were finally finding a rhythm again here at the Harrison’s, but since the Harvest Moon, Stiles feels as confused as ever.

Out in the garden, Eucalyptus is trailing Derek, nipping at his hands and the back of his legs, just below his ass. Derek's eyes flash red and it looks like he's snarling at her but she doesn't even seem fazed. Stiles laughs, then winces at the sharp pain it causes in his chest. He sighs, rubbing a hand over the spot, wistfully thinking it would be nice if he could suck his own pain out like a werewolf.

"Stiles?"

He looks up to see Ziggy Rain, holding out the pack's only phone—a cordless with an antenna that looks straight out of the early 2000's.

"You have a call," Ziggy says, stepping closer so he doesn't have to get up. Stiles is still a little surprised by the courtesy this pack shows him. Ziggy is Lennon's teenage brother and they look like twins, with the same long brown hair and eyes. He imagines Derek and Laura looked like twins too, but he's never seen any pictures of Laura besides old yearbook pictures to know for sure.

"Thanks," he says, taking the phone and smiling up at him. He left his phone upstairs and there's only one person who has the pack's number. "Hey Dad."

"Hey kid." Stiles cringes at the worry in his voice. “How’s the weather?” John asks, as Stiles adjusts the phone in his hand and moves to get up. He makes his way, slowly, out into the yard, away from super hearing ears.

It’s gorgeous outside, the sun bathing everything in bright light, but it’s not too hot. They both know his dad doesn’t really care about the weather—he’s just trying to make conversation, to not ask too many questions he doesn’t think Stiles can answer.

“I’m watching a goat _sunbathe_. It’s great out, Dad.” Eucalyptus has given up her quest to annoy Derek and is laying next to a sleeping werewolf, starfished out in the field, snoring loudly, and she's trying to eat his pant leg. But he doesn’t think his dad needs to know that.

He can hear his dad smiling on the other end of the line. “I’m drawing a line right now. If you come home thinking the Stilinski’s are going to be a vegan family, you’re dead wrong.”

“I’m learning how to make tofu, just for you. Just think of all the recipes. Tofu salad, tofu lasagna, tofu kung pao...”

His dad laughs, and normally that would make Stiles light up but his head is a mess, and he feels like he’s just going through the motions, the same as he’s felt since the Harvest Moon.

"How are you?" his dad asks a moment later, sober, and Stiles pretends he doesn't sound as scared as he does.

"I'm good," he says, wincing, because even he can hear the lie.

" _Stiles._ "

He takes a breath. "I'm... better."

"How much?" his dad asks, not sounding convinced. "Because honestly, kid, you don't sound any better."

Stiles tips his head forward, trying to get the sun out of his eyes. It’s starting to build to a headache, he can feel the pressure against his skull. "I am, it's just... a process." It's hard to talk to his dad because he's worried he'll let something slip and his dad will figure him out.

There's a frustrated breath over the line. "There's nothing I can say to get you to tell me what's really going on, is there?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

"That's bullshit and you know it, Stiles," he says, suddenly angry. He knows his dad is just worried about him and he wishes he could tell him, he'd love nothing more than to have his dad there to take care of him, but that's not how they do things. Stiles takes care of his dad now and he's not going to risk his heart with a surprise, supernatural pregnancy.

When Stiles doesn't say anything right away, his dad sighs and when he talks again, his voice is back to a frustrated concern. "Listen, Stiles, I get there are things out there you want to protect me from but you keep forgetting I'm the parent here. It's my job to protect _you_. I would do anything for you, you know that right?"

He finds a shaded spot next to a large oak tree and sits down, resting his back against the trunk. "I know dad." Stiles' throat feels tight. "But—"

"I don't want to hear any more excuses," he says, cutting him off. "I won’t, no, I _can't_ stay here and do nothing when you're off with a bunch of damn hippies trying to recover from god knows what. You might be too proud to admit it but you need me—"

"Dad," he tries to interrupt, his voice cracking.

"—and I damn well need to be with you right now. Maybe you'll understand that someday when you have a kid."

 _Jesus fuck._ Stiles' heart is beating out of control and there are tears welling up in his eyes. His dad’s right, he needs him more than ever now but he can't. How is he supposed to tell him _this_?

He sucks in a deep breath, intending to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a choked sob. His chest feels too tight suddenly, the overwhelming sense of _guilt_ overtaking everything else. When his mother had been dying, she’d told him he only had one job, as far as she was concerned: to take care of his dad. Stiles’ leaving for the Harrison’s was supposed to make things easier on him, not harder.

And he’s so spectacularly fucked that up, like everything else of late.

He can’t get enough air in his lungs, and he can fucking feel his veins constricting, making everything tight and strained. He doubles over, the pain that’s been building in his head ratcheting up, making his vision blur at the edges. It’s like a panic attack on steroids.

He tries desperately to think of anything Aurora’s taught him about controlling his energy, body, _whatever_ if it’s going to stop this, but his mind is too scattered, and he’s already on the verge of hysteria.

“Stiles?” He can hear his dad on the other end of the phone, frantic, and knows he should say something. His cheeks are damp now, and he needs to focus and just stop crying, but he _can’t_.

He feels someone kneeling beside him, and it’s Derek, wrapping one arm firmly around him and taking the phone from Stiles' hand in one swift movement.

"Sheriff?" he hears Derek say, sounding far away even though he’s right there beside him. "Yeah, I'll call you back."

Stiles hears a thump from the phone being tossed away and then Derek's tipping his chin back so he can see his eyes.

"Stiles," Derek says, looking him firmly in the eyes. "Breathe with me, okay?"

He wants to but his head is pounding so strongly, he has to close his eyes to block out the daylight. The hand on his chin squeezes hard enough to get him to look out again.

"Focus, Stiles," Derek says, firm. "You're okay, I've got you. Just breathe."

Stiles’ breath is shuddering out of him with each pained sob, but Derek holds him through it, making him keep eye contact until finally he’s just hiccuping, his arms shaking at his sides from sheer exhaustion.

“I’m going to pick you up,” Derek says, hand finally sliding off his chin to settle on one of his arms. “I really need you not to fight me.”

Even if he wanted to, Stiles wouldn’t have the energy to fight anyone. Derek’s still watching him, though, so he gives a quick, stuttered nod to show that he understands.

Derek lifts him up in his arms effortlessly, making his way back into the house. Stiles is aware there are eyes on them as Derek heads upstairs to the bedroom, but no one approaches, seeming to sense the need for distance. Stiles is incredibly grateful.

... 

...

When he wakes up, the throbbing in his head starts immediately, followed by an overwhelming nausea. He starts to curl in on himself, trying to will it away, when a hand lands on his shoulder.

Stiles is expecting the pain to seep out like it always has when Derek touches him when he feels like this, but there’s nothing but the warm, firm weight of the hand, and the continued throbbing in his skull.

“Derek?” he asks, squinting one eye open, but it’s definitely not Derek beside him. It’s his dad, looking grief-stricken, and Stiles’ chest tightens instantly. He flails a little on the bed, ignoring the way that makes every muscle in his body ache. “Dad?”

Some of the worry disappears from John’s face as he sits on the edge of the bed, pressing a hand lightly against Stiles’ chest to make him still. "Hey kiddo," he says softly, but his voice is rough from worry. Then he leans down and hugs Stiles, taking in a deep breath.

“How?” Stiles starts, throwing his arms around him and squeezing tight. They stay like that for some time, neither of them needing or able to say anything, and then his dad is straightening a little and clearing his throat.

“Derek,” he says by way of explanation, nodding toward the doorway, and Stiles jerks his head to look over at him. Derek’s leaning there, studying them, but he keeps his face blank. “He called me back after you were asleep.” John smiles a little, and Stiles feels a wave of relief at that look. “I threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t give me the address. Luckily, he knows what’s good for him a lot more than you do.”

Stiles glances back at Derek, but there’s no way to read his features or tell what he’s thinking. Then he realizes something, and he whips his head back around— _fuck_ , that hurt—to his dad. His gaze flickers from his dad's face down to his own swollen stomach, then back up again.

“Um,” he says.

“Derek told me about the blue moon.”

Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to die of mortification, like, right now. “Oh,” he says, his voice gone squeaky. He really hopes Derek didn’t go into too much detail. He _really_ hopes.

His dad takes in a deep breath, fixing him with a leveled look. “I... understand why you felt the need to keep this a secret from me.” His face scrunches up, obviously trying to choose his words. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Stiles can feel his stomach drop.

“But,” his dad adds hastily, seeing something on Stiles’ face, “you should have told me anyway.”

“You’d have shot Derek,” Stiles says, completely serious. John pauses, but doesn’t deny it.

“Who says I’m not still going to?” he asks, the corners of his lips quirking up just enough to where Stiles can see it but Derek can’t. When they both sneak a glance over, Derek is definitely paler.

John smiles just a little more, putting his hands on Stiles’ arms, and then his expression goes serious again. “You nearly died, Stiles.”

“I’m going to be the one killing Derek,” Stiles says, feeling his blood boil as he tries to twist around to face Derek. “You had no right to -”

“Stop,” his dad cuts him off. “You think he had to tell me? You lived in my house, kid. Maybe I missed—” he waves his hand a little, at a loss, “—the pregnancy, but I know my son, and I know when he’s not okay. So the next time... aliens invade your body or you grow a tail—” Stiles raises a brow at his dad’s idea of what the supernatural entails “—you are going to tell me. Do you understand me?”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “I promise, Dad.”

He leans over to hug his dad again, squeezing his eyes closed. When he opens them again, he turns to look at Derek, to say... something, to thank him for bringing his dad to him, anything—and he finds that the doorway is empty.

Stiles doesn’t see Derek again until dinner, and even then, it’s just to grab a plate before Derek’s nodding awkwardly to John and going to eat in their room. He doesn’t get too much time to focus on it, because his dad’s face is pretty much _comedy gold_ as he stares at the sheer amount of werewolves in the kitchen, some half-shifted, others nude. Tangerine is throwing dinner plates into the air, laughing and delighted, as lightning-quick reflexes allow the wolves to snatch them before they fall.

“You are our honored guest,” Sherice’s voice booms out from the masses, and then she’s moving through a crowd of people gathered around tonight’s dinner to embrace Stiles’ dad in a hug. John hugs her back a little awkwardly, patting her back lightly, but he’s the Sheriff, so he’s pretty used to little old ladies hugging him and bringing him baked goods. “Please, join us for a meal.”

His dad looks skeptical about what might pass for food around here, but politeness apparently wins over. “Thank you very much. I’d love to.”

“I’ll get you a plate,” Stiles offers, because he’s not sure who in the crowd of people gathered around the kitchen counter is wearing clothes and who isn’t, and his dad has probably had a traumatic enough day as it is.

His muscles are still sore from earlier, but he refuses to be stuck in bed while his dad is actually here, in person, so he’s powering through. He fixes his dad a plate, and makes one for himself, because he knows if he doesn’t, John’s going to give him hell.

By the time he gets back, John’s busy talking to Pickles and Lennon in the doorway, and he has to duck under Pickles’ massive arm span to reach his dad. John gives Stiles an over-exaggerated smile, like he’s really a little scared on the inside. “Your friends were just telling me there’s an orgy later. If I wanted to attend.”

Lennon beams at Stiles and he cracks up. The look on his dad’s face is priceless.

They finally settle down on the porch swing outside. The kitchen table is already teeming with people, and Stiles’ headache is starting to come back as the adrenaline rush over seeing his dad wears off. Outside is a much better option—there’s only a few other wolves out here, and while he’s pretty sure that two of the teenagers, Wintersong and Burgundy (because he can recognize her red hair), are having sex by that log, it’s quieter. And Stiles can curl in on himself here, trying to ignore the nausea.

His dad pokes at the kale chips on his salad, not really sure what to do with them. “You really weren’t kidding about this place.”

“Nope. They’re good people, though. They’re helping.”

“Are they?” his dad asks, studying him. He nods to where Stiles’ arm is wrapped around his stomach, clearly in discomfort. “You look better, but when I talked to you last, you sounded... back to your old self. Or closer. You don’t look it now, though.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath.

He’s pretty sure that he knows what the problem is, but he’s been trying so hard not to think about it, to will it away with ignorance.

Since the night of the Harvest Moon, Derek’s been avoiding him. Sure, he’s always there, because there are only so many places one can hide among a group of 30 free-loving, free-with-their-information, werewolves. And when Stiles is in pain, Derek’s there in an instant to press a comforting hand to his forehead until it eases. But he’s not the same. The only time he’s touched Stiles, outside of the need to take away his discomfort, had been two days ago. They’d both reached for a fork at the same time, and the second Derek’s hand brushed his, he’d jumped back as though burned, made some quick excuses, and fled.

Then again, it’s not like Stiles has said anything to Derek either. Still doesn’t know _what_ to say.

“Is it you and Derek?” his dad asks, too damn perceptive for his own good.

“I’m working through it,” Stiles says, but his dad gives him another ‘don’t you dare be evasive again’ look so he adds, sighing. “There’s some kind of energy... connection between the three of us.”

“Three?” John says, looking perplexed for second before it dawns on him. “Oh. Christ,” he says with a harsh breath.

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a nod.

“How long... until?” he asks, gesturing to Stiles’ stomach.

“Few months, I guess.”

“What are your plans?” he asks, taking a bite of his salad with a grimace.

“For what?”

“The baby,” John says with a look of ‘duh’ on his face.

Stiles nods seriously. “I thought I’d sign us up for our own reality show. We could call it _Raising Wolf_. TLC would eat that up.”

John rolls his eyes and would probably press for more, but Rufus Bear steps onto the porch, wearing nothing but house slippers with yellow ducks on them. Stiles’ watches the eyebrows inch up on his dad’s face.

“You must be John!” Rufus says, his face bright and welcoming, which is basically how he always looks. “I am Rufus Bear, it is _such_ a pleasure to meet the man who raised young Stiles.” Stiles tries to stretch as far back as he can so he’s not in the line of fire as Rufus leans down to embrace his dad in a full hug. John sputters, too shocked to do anything.

Rufus pulls back and takes John’s hand in his. “Thank you for your humanness,” he says sincerely, bowing his head for a moment.

Rufus then sets his sights on Stiles, placing his hands on Stiles’ cheeks. “You had a bad day. But remember,” he pauses so long Stiles thinks he’s lost whatever he was going to say—and he really just wants his face back, please and thank you—but Rufus finally continues with, “a day without sunshine is just night.”

“Thanks,” Stiles mutters, finally knocking Rufus’ hands off him.

His dad is still staring wide-eyed in bewilderment as Rufus shifts into his wolf face and marches down the porch steps, wandering off further into the woods with his arms stretched wide, saying to the trees, “Hello old friends! What a beautiful evening!”

“What the _hell_ ,” John says, looking at Stiles with wide eyes.

Stiles can relate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone once said "thank you for your humanness" to me in a bicycle shop in sante fe new mexico. seriously.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be posting two chapters a day now until we finish it off (which at this new rate, will be Thursday). Thanks so much to everyone for reading - for any any of our readers who got hassled by an anon last night, we've now disabled anonymous commenting, so it won't happen again.

It’s late, and Derek can tell that Stiles is tired—the bags under his eyes have been getting heavier and darker every day since John arrived. But he’s smiling, leaning forward from where he’s seated on the sofa to hear his father better, and Derek can’t bring himself to put a stop to it yet.

“And then,” John says, while the group of kids gathered around on pillows in front of his chair stare, wide-eyed, “the Death Star blew up!” He mimes detonation, complete with sound effects.

There are collective gasps from the group, even little Humor is biting her lip to keep from looking too invested in the story, and Stiles is clearly trying to fight against the urge to laugh, and doing a terrible job.

Sherice is smiling, amused, from the doorway. “That’s probably enough for one night,” she says, nodding to the kids. “Go to bed.”

“But-” Lief tries to protest, but Sherice raises one brow, and he closes his mouth. Derek really wishes he had that effect on his own pack sometimes.

“Tomorrow, maybe I’ll tell you about Harry Potter,” John promises, then he shares a look with Stiles once the last of the kids has begrudgingly marched off to bed. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been so interested in my stories before.”

“They think they’re real. They’re used to legends,” Derek says from the other sofa, and Stiles looks over at him. Something about his expression suggests that he’s struggling with wanting to say something to him, but he ultimately decides against whatever it is.

Derek’s gotten pretty used to that expression since the Harvest Moon. It’s mind boggling to him that Stiles—loud, always-has-a-nickname-or-a-comment-for-everything Stiles—can’t seem to find a way to talk to Derek since the full moon. It also speaks volumes to how much he’s freaked Stiles out. Derek’s shocked and disgusted him into _silence_. The greatest sin of all for a Stilinski.

He’s been wondering for days why he’d thought it was a good idea to be honest with Stiles in that moment. They were never boyfriends, even ‘lovers’ makes him cringe inwardly, but he’d thought they were getting closer since they’d arrived at the Harrison’s, and that they’d shared a moment that night that meant something really big, for both of them.

Derek’s misread the entire situation, though. Whatever they’d shared had been about sex, the way that it always has been between them, and Stiles is too horrified or embarrassed to address the situation now, so the silence is his way of letting Derek down easy.

He wishes it felt that way from his end: _easy_.

So Derek’s been trying to stay out of his way, only appearing when Stiles needs him for the pain or to help him work on Aurora’s teachings. It makes him feel... uneasy, almost _used_ , but it’s the only thing he knows he can do to help the situation.

Stiles clears his throat and looks back at his dad, smiling. “Yeah, because they don’t have TV. These children are seriously deprived. You are basically doing them a public service.”

John chuckles. “It’s better than when you were a kid. If we didn’t read _Goodnight, Moon_ at least five times a night, there was hell to pay.”

Stiles pokes at his own stomach. “I think this thing’s going to be more of a _Where the Wild Things Are_ fan. Monsters who wants to eat a poor, unsuspecting human? Right up its alley.”

He’s laughing, but Derek feels his heart sink even more and his cheeks flush in irritation.

“I think it’s my bedtime,” John says, stretching his arms out as he stands. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, then closes it, suddenly looking nauseous. Derek moves over to him instantly, concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay,” he insists, even as Derek can tell he’s leaning back now, trying to fight off a wave of pain.

Derek kneels in front of him, hands hovering awkwardly, forcing himself not to touch. Stiles has been in pain more and more frequently lately, it seems, and he thinks it might be because of the tension between them. “Use your anchor, like Aurora said.”

Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, then huffs out a small, frustrated breath when it doesn’t work. “Can’t you just do your thing?”

“Stiles,” Derek pleads, patient, even as he knows he’s going to step in at any moment if Stiles can’t stop it himself soon. “You need to be trying to fix it yourself.”

“You can help him?” John asks suddenly, and Derek flounders a little, caught off guard. “If you can help him, shouldn’t you do that?”

Derek’s not sure how to explain to the Sheriff that he hates seeing Stiles in pain almost as much as he does, but that this is important. He mostly just stares at him like a deer in headlights. “He needs to do it himself,” he says, a little more insistent. “You haven’t been here,” he starts, but John shoots him a dark look to imply whose fault that is and he stutters, “you don’t understand what, I mean, he -”

Stiles breathes out harshly, and Derek relents, pressing a hand to his forehead until Stiles’ breathing returns to normal. John’s still shifting anxiously behind them.

Stiles gives a small nod when he’s better, and Derek slowly pulls his hand back. “Thanks,” Stiles says, looking away from him to stare at the floor, and Derek feels his stomach drop again. He doesn’t know why he keeps hoping things are going to be different.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, leaving to head up the stairs to their bedroom alone.

...

...

Derek still has every intention to burn this chair before he leaves. It’s possible he’s been having vivid fantasies about ripping it open with his claws, tearing the stuffing out, and then throwing it out a window. Maybe directly into a lake.

He stands, stretching the kinks out of his neck and back before his ability to heal handles the rest. Stiles is still asleep, and Derek can tell by the way the sheets are bunched up that he’s slept almost as fitfully as Derek. The sun is just up over the horizon outside, and it’s mostly quiet in the house, meaning almost everyone else is asleep.

He strolls the grounds trying to clear his head, and hears a metal clang coming from the barn, so he approaches cautiously to investigate. The Harrison’s have a truce with the hunters, but Derek’s got first hand experience in how little that can mean.

It’s just Rufus Bear, sitting on a stool and milking Eucalyptus.

“Good night,” Rufus greets, without turning around, and Derek hesitates. Maybe it’s not too late to turn around and leave—it’s not like Rufus is probably even going to remember this conversation in ten minutes. Does that still make it rude to pretend he didn’t hear him?

“It’s morning,” he says instead, warily, giving in and stepping into the barn.

“Not for some of us,” Rufus answers cheerfully, which, _what_?

Derek’s already regretting the decision to engage, but he heads closer, hesitantly, then stops to grab a cushion off the ground. It’s a little dirty, so he dusts it off before holding it out to Rufus. “Just... please? I’m begging you.”

Rufus accepts it and then smiles at Derek. “Thank you,” he says, still just holding it.

 _Jesus Christ_. “For your lap,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Oh!” Rufus drops the cushion into his lap. “But I don’t have anything for you.”

Derek stares back at him, but he can’t even be bothered to explain. Doesn’t even know how he’d start. “It’s fine,” he says instead, sitting down on the stool next to him. Eucalyptus bleats at him, though Derek thinks it might be more _fuck you_ than _hello_. He’s not sure what he’s done to piss her off, but she really doesn’t like him.

“Why is it morning?” Rufus asks, going back to milking Eucalyptus.

Derek tries to make sense of that. “Because... the sun rose and... what? It just is.”

“Nothing just is,” Rufus answers, and seriously, Derek is making some awful life choices if he’s now voluntarily choosing to talk to Rufus Bear at six in the morning.

“Lots of things _just are_ ,” Derek says, and Christ, he’s not even sure why he’s arguing. He motions to the goat. “Why is Eucalyptus a girl? Because she _just is_. Why are we werewolves?” He can feel his anger rising, and his cheeks flush. “Why is there famine? Why are there _fires_? Why do people die? Why am I having a fucking baby with a guy who hates me?”

He blows out a sharp breath.

Okay, maybe he can answer at least one of those.

“He smells of peanut butter and pack,” Rufus offers, far too cheerfully.

Derek buries his head in his hands and forces himself to breathe in through his nose.

“He’s not pack, though. You can’t be in a pack if you hate the Alpha.” He would know—he’s been trying with Scott for years.

“Are you certain?” Rufus asks, looking at him.

“That he hates me?” Derek’s quiet for another minute, thinking that over. “I told him some things, and he said _nothing_.” Derek’s not sure why it feels okay to voice that now. Since the Harvest Moon, Stiles has barely said a word to him at all. Some of that, he knows, is just that Stiles has been preoccupied with John being here, and Derek feels _so guilty_ for being jealous of that.

Some of it is that Derek is afraid to be in the same room with him anymore. Afraid of what he’s going to do, or say, or admit to next, if he stands near Stiles for too long.

“We’re not getting along,” he says instead, and Eucalyptus bleats at him again, as if to say, _no shit_. “I can take it but I don’t know if he or the baby can.”

It’s been getting worse. They’re more distant, and Derek’s pretty sure it’s his own selfish need to be around Stiles and the baby that’s the cause. He’s caught Stiles looking at him a few times, guilt and concern clearly written all over his face, and it hurts. For a time, when they were getting along and everything felt so _right_ , he’d thought that maybe they really were mates—but he’s pretty sure the legends Sherice heard about how conception occured on the Blue Moon must have been wrong.

Because clearly Stiles doesn’t feel the same about him and Derek’s being a jackass for allowing him to feel any guilt over it. He shouldn’t, Stiles never wanted more from him and he’s been dragged into this painful life because of Derek. And now he’s suffering even more because Derek’s upsetting him and, in turn, upsetting the baby.

Rufus turns to look at him. “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

Derek blinks at him, and he actually thinks he feels like he’s gotten a little more clarity on his situation. Rufus just stares at him. “I should... get back. Everyone will be up soon. Thanks for listening to me,” he says, squeezing Rufus’ shoulder.

Rufus Bear stands, handing him back the cushion with a smile, and Derek thinks he’s going to leave. But he returns a moment later with two baskets, hands them both to Derek and motions him to follow towards the coop where they keep the chickens.

Derek screws his eyes shut. Seriously, he’s lost his mind staying here.

When he gets back to the house, John’s sitting on the porch swing in the back, a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He’s got reading glasses perched on his nose that he looks up over when Derek climbs the steps.

“There’s a fresh pot, if you’re interested.” He motions to the door leading to the kitchen. “They may not know how to eat properly but this bunch can make a good cup of joe.”

Derek nods and John must see the termoil he’s feeling because he sets his paper down and pulls off his glasses. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah.”

John gives him a knowing look. “Want to try that again?” Derek only stares and eventually John sighs and pats on the swing next to him. "Sit down," he says, and if Derek thought John was at all afraid of him, he'd try to resist.

“I wanted to thank you,” John says after he sits, and it catches Derek off guard because it’s the last thing he’s expecting to hear from Stiles’ father. “When Stiles wouldn’t tell me what was going on with him, it was good to know that someone who really cares was here with him, if I couldn’t be.”

Derek keeps his eyes on the dew covered lawn, afraid the guilt is going to swallow him whole if he looks at John. He’s got no reason to be grateful to Derek—he’s a lot of the reason Stiles is in this mess to begin with, and the reason he’s been so tense the last few weeks.

“And I know it took courage to call me,” John continues. Derek’s still refusing to look, but he can tell that John is studying him. “To tell me about... the pregnancy.”

Derek would prefer never to remember that particular conversation again.

“That’s not what’s going on between you two, is it?”

This time, Derek does look at him, confused.

“I mean, you’re not fighting over telling me?” John asks, and Derek flinches. John is a good man, one of the best Derek knows, and he hates thinking that he’s been worried about causing the strain between him and Stiles.

“No,” Derek says. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“But you are fighting,” John says, brows knitting together, and Derek has the distinct impression that he’s just been lured into just admitting something he didn’t intend to, and that this was the Sheriff’s intention all along.

He keeps his mouth closed, in a thin, tight line.

“It wasn’t a question, Derek,” John says, but he sounds sympathetic and he places a hand on Derek’s shoulder, squeezing. It reminds Derek of something his own father would have done.

"Listen," he says, his tone more stern now, and Derek girds himself, ready for the anger he’s been expecting from John since he first arrived. He’s shocked it’s taken this long. "I can't say I wasn't shocked or that I'm particularly happy about any of this. This is more than the typical ‘pregnancy call’ fathers of sons expect to get.” He pauses and Derek’s just smart enough to know not to speak. “However, Rose and I had only known each other for a few months when she got pregnant with Stiles."

Derek looks at him, then, surprised.

John nods. "We were panicked. She was still in school. I had just finished but I was goofing off instead of trying to find a good deputy position like I should've been." He smiles softly at the memories, shaking his head a little. "It was the motivation we needed to get our acts together, that's for sure. It wasn't easy; it was stressful as hell, actually. We fought a lot but we knew we had to work together to figure it out. We had someone else counting on us now."

Derek open and closes his mouth a few times, unsure how to respond, unsure of what exactly John’s saying to him.

"I'm not trying to lecture you, son." John’s got a little grin on his lips, like he knows exactly what Derek's thinking. "What I'm saying is, I know a little bit about what you're feeling. You may be an 'alpha' but that doesn’t mean you’ll know shit when it comes to having kids. And nobody here expects you to, got it?"

"Yeah." Derek nods, his throat tight. “Thanks.”

John reads him for a moment before nodding. “You’ll do alright,” he says, mostly to himself as he turns back to his paper, pushing his glasses back on.

Derek watches him for a moment, running over the words in his head and trying to figure out exactly what John’s telling him. It’s clear he’s been dismissed, though, so he stands.

“Oh, and Derek?” John says, not lowering the paper. “Whatever’s going on with you two—avoiding a problem never made it go away.”

Derek’s pretty sure he’s just been called out, and this time, he’s smart enough to flee before John can take that line of thought further.

...

...

Derek hovers outside the door for a moment, plate of food clutched in his hand. He’s not sure why he feels like he should _knock_ —it’s his room too—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow intruding. Eventually, he shakes it off and opens the door.

Stiles is sitting up against the headboard in bed, looking a little better than he had this morning when Derek had last seen him. “Your dad asked me to bring this up,” he says, setting the plate onto the bedside table beside Stiles.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and Derek turns to leave again, when Stiles’ voice stops him. “You don’t have to go, you know.”

Derek goes still, suddenly not sure what to do. He can’t remember the last time Stiles has invited him to do... anything. The longer he stands here, though, the more awkward the situation is becoming, so Derek finally just moves to take a seat in the chair, as uncomfortable as it is.

Stiles gives him a small, tentative smile, and reaches for his plate. “You already eat?”

“No,” Derek says, and he has no intention to. When Ziggy Rain had told him what was for dinner, he could only recognize one word—and that was tofu.

Stiles takes a bite, grimacing. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he says, and it’s weird, that a few weeks ago that would have made Derek smile. Now, after all the silence from Stiles, Derek’s not sure how it makes him feel. There’s an apprehension in the air that’s palpable, though.

But if this really is Stiles trying to diffuse some of it, Derek’s willing to try. “Your dad said he took another month leave of absence at work.”

Stiles nods slowly. “Yeah, I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted.”

“You like him being here,” Derek says, and Stiles goes quiet again, leaving Derek to think he’s already messed up the metaphorical olive branch Stiles might be holding out to him. “How are things going with Aurora?” he asks instead, trying a different tactic, and Stiles hasn’t given him an update in days. He’s genuinely curious.

“Okay,” Stiles says, taking another bite of his food. Derek’s not sure if he makes a face after because his appetite is nonexistent right now, or because the food really is that bad. He smiles faintly after, though, thinking of something. “She’s been using a meditation candle. I got Lief to bring me one of his fireworks and swapped out the wicks, and she spent the whole session wondering why everything smelled of sulfur instead of ‘Zanzibar Mint’.”

Derek listens along, but when Stiles smiles at him at the end, expecting an answering smile in return, Derek doesn’t give it to him. “Shouldn’t you be taking the lessons seriously?”

Stiles looks at him, a little thrown off. “I am.”

“The few sessions I’ve been to with you, you were joking the whole time. Have you even successfully channeled the energy to help yourself?”

“Yes,” he says, annoyed. “I can have a good time and still learn, Derek. I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t say that,” Derek says, a little flustered. He’s not sure how to tell Stiles that he thinks he needs to try harder, without actually just saying it, which he knows won’t go over well. He blows out a breath and tries again, “I just think you’re not doing everything you can, that you could make more of an effort."

Stiles looks insulted, his eyebrows twisted up in confusion and his mouth open. “Are you serious? Do you think I like all this? That I wouldn’t do whatever I could to make it stop, even for five minutes? Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in _constant pain_?”

“I know you’re in pain... but are you really trying?” Derek presses. “Because it looks a lot like you’re half-assing your part and using me to make it better.”

Stiles mouth drops open for a moment, but then he snaps it shut, face lined with hostility now. “Excuse me?”

Derek takes in a deep breath. “You know you have me take the pain away at least once a day.”

“And that’s using you,” Stiles says, incredulous. “Wow, and here I thought you just wanted to help me since _you’re the reason I’m in pain_. Thank you, for clearing that up.”

“Oh, not this again.”

Derek’s not sure where the words have come from—but that’s definitely his voice. The look Stiles gives him can only be defined as startled.

“Fuck you, man,” Stiles shoots back, his shoulders bunched with anger, but there’s also a layer of discomfort, his brow looking tight like it does when he’s got a migraine.

Something in Derek snaps. “I’m pretty sure that’s what got us _both_ into his situation.” Stiles looks ready to lunge for him, his anger ratcheting up, Derek can feel it, but Derek’s got an answering rage bubbling in his own chest. “Yeah, both of us, I said it. Because you know damn well that I didn’t mean for this to happen, but that hasn’t stopped you from punishing me for it for _months_.”

“Oh, I’m sorry your feelings are hurt, Derek, but I’m the one in constant agony. I literally feel like I'm dying. Don’t try to make me feel guilty for doing something about it.”

“But you’re not,” Derek says, too loud. He steps out of the chair, needing to move around, and he starts pacing the small room, even as he stares at Stiles. “What do you think is going to happen when you have the baby, huh? You think I can just stand there and take it all away?”

Stiles sputters, at a loss, his nostrils flaring as he takes in a deep, pained breath.

“Or have you not even thought about that?” Derek goes on. “Because I have, and unless you figure your shit out, you’re going to end up _dead_.” He’s yelling now. There’s a small part of his brain telling him to calm down but months of built of frustrations and guilt and his own anger are overruling. “You’ve been using me as a crutch to avoid learning to do it yourself. I keep indulging you-”

“Indulging?” Stiles asks, cutting him off, venomous. His voice has reached a fever pitch and Derek can see his hands are shaking. “You do the bare fucking minimum. Maybe if you’d go back to sleeping in the damn bed again, I wouldn’t be in so much pain in the first place, and you wouldn’t have to _indulge_ me anymore.”

“You don’t want me there!” Derek screams back. His breath is coming out in short, hard puffs, his chest rising and falling in quick succession.

Stiles waves his arm, clearly frustrated, cheeks red and splotchy with untempered anger. “I never said that. You’re the one who started sleeping in the chair again.”

“You know damn well why I stopped.” He’s not yelling anymore but his voice is vibrating with anger.

“It was a stupid reason,” Stiles hisses back, visibly wincing. “I wish I hadn’t slept with you that night.”

Derek takes a step back; he feels like he’s been punched.

“Why does sex with you always have to end in misery?” Stiles continues, still looking livid. “Everything was going _fine_ until then. Now it’s back to pain and exhaustion and you startling at the drop of a fucking hat.”

“You really want to talk about avoidance?” Derek asks, voice rising again. He feels close to hysterics. “Alert the media! Stiles Stilinski hasn’t said a fucking word to me in days.”

“What the hell do you want me to say, Derek?”

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. He’s still angry but his momentum is draining. He feels weary and his voice has gone quiet. “I don’t want anything from you except for you to not die.”

Stiles visibly deflates a little at that, but there’s still a rough, raw edge to his voice. “That’s kind of my goal here. Not to die.”

“I’m not helping you,” Derek says, and he’s known for awhile, but he’s finally ready to admit it. He nods to where Stiles’ fingers are fisted in the bed sheets. Stiles looks away from him. “Our fighting, it’s making everything worse. Just look at you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says dryly, pinching his eyes closed. “Got that memo, thanks. How is any of this helping?”

“It’s not,” Derek answers, feeling like he’s seeing clearly for the first time in days. “I need to go back to Beacon Hills.”

Stiles head snaps back to look at him, and it’s followed by a wince. “That’s your solution? More running away? Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m not _running away_ ,” Derek says, firmly. “Some distance right now will be better, for you and the baby.”

“Spare me the self-righteous act,” Stiles says, waving his hand at him. “What I wanted or needed didn’t stop you the other two thousand times I didn’t want you around either. You want to go, the door’s right there.” He points at it, raising his brows in defiance, a dare. “Just get out, Derek.”

So he does.


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles keeps his eyes closed, trying to focus on envisioning it, like Aurora has taught him: focusing on the warm, safe feeling his friendship with Scott gives him until he can feel a buzz thrumming through his veins, meaning his anchor is working. Picturing the air around him, imagining it entering his lungs with each inhale of breath. He can visualize flashes of color at the edges of his vision, thinks that they represent the energy, and he tries to gather them with his thoughts. For a moment, some of the pain throbbing in his veins dissipates.

“Visualize it,” Aurora says next to him, soothing. “You can do this, Stiles.”

He tries to push past the rest of the pain, but he doesn’t have a good enough hold on it and her voice breaks his concentration. The colors disappear completely and the throbbing returns, and he sighs, opening his eyes. His shoulders sag.

“I had it, but I lost it.”

It’s only been a few days since Derek left, and his concentration is shot to hell.

She nods, squeezing his forearm and rising off the bed. “Maybe that’s enough for today.” They’ve been having sessions in the bedroom since a fever arrived the day before, and while he feels less delirious right now, he doesn’t think tackling the stairs is going to end up in his favor.

“You know,” she says, giving him a small, sad smile. “It’s okay to miss him.”

Stiles just gives her a look, hoping that it implies the end of _that_ conversation.

He _does_ miss him, though. It was a tough pill to swallow but days of laying in bed, melting with a fever, has helped Stiles see what a gigantic jackass he’s been. He’s been replaying their fight over in his head, wishing he hadn’t said so many things in anger. He hadn’t meant that he regretted sleeping with Derek the night of the Harvest Moon—on the contrary, it’s one of the few memories that he likes to savor now, how Derek had looked in the warm glow of the fire’s light, how relaxed and happy he’d seemed in that moment. It’s just that the sex also seemed to put an end to whatever good place they’d been building towards.

Because now Derek’s not here.

Stiles has considered calling, apologizing, but he keeps coming back to one point: if Derek really wanted to be here, he would be.

So Stiles is just going to have to soldier on without him. And whatever, he did it before, he can do it again.

As Aurora walks out, his dad appears in the doorway. He pauses there, leaning back to make sure she’s disappeared while Stiles’ raises his brows at him, and then John’s pulling out a Reese’s candy from his inside jacket pocket.

“I had to bribe Lennon, but she picked this up in town when they went for supplies. Your favorite.”

John looks so proud of himself and hopeful that Stiles doesn’t have the heart to tell him he doesn’t think he could keep it down. He takes it anyway, giving him a quick smile. “Thanks.”

“How are you feeling today, kiddo?”

He feels like crap. “Better than yesterday,” he says, because it’s not a lie, but it’s better than the _whole_ truth.

John nods, sitting down on the edge of the bed with him. “You know, you gave your mom hell when she was pregnant with you.” He grins at the memory, and Stiles watches him, intent. He’s heard almost every story John has about his mom at least a dozen times, can recite most of them by heart, even the ones he wasn’t there for. But this one’s new. “Everyone told her the morning sickness would last just a few months, but that didn’t happen. Oh, she was so sick all the time, throwing up almost daily. She hated it.” He laughs a little. “I think she hated me by the end of it, actually. But then there you were. And suddenly the rest didn’t matter.”

Stiles laughter is a little hollow, and he’s looking down at the candy in his hands as he picks at the edges of the package so he doesn't have to see the way his dad's fond smile will turn a little sad at the end, like it does whenever he talks about her. "I think I win for worst pregnancy ever," he says eventually, to bring the mood back to light. "Not that anyone will ever know, if I have anything to say about it.”

"It's one for the record books, alright."

"The secret, unofficial werewolf records," Stiles adds. "Which I plan to burn the second it makes it in. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can forget it ever happened." And he wants to forget. He wants to never think about Derek’s face from their fight, or the sight of him leaving, again.

His dad gives him an incredulous look, "You'll have a good reminder, though."

"If you say stretch marks, I swear to god, Dad," Stiles warns and John laughs.

"No, son," he says, smiling still. "I mean your baby."

Oh. Stiles looks back down at his hands. "Right," he says after a pause. "The baby."

Luckily his dad knows him too well and he doesn't say anything else, just lets Stiles take the time to find the words he knows he needs to say. "Listen Dad, I'm not keeping it."

He can tell his dad wants to say something, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to find his own words. “So what happens after the baby is born?”

Stiles takes in a deep breath and looks away from him, to the empty chair, before he turns back. “It’s Derek’s. He’s keeping it.”

His dad is studying him but there's no judgement to it, and Stiles is grateful. He's not sure he can handle disappointing his dad once again. “This baby is yours too.”

"I know," he says, too quickly.

"Do you?"

Stiles just looks at him. He opens his mouth to say something but he can't find the words.

"Because," John continues, "from the way I've heard you talk about this baby, I would think you're completely detached." The words sound harsh but his father’s face is full of sympathy.

"I..." He starts but again, he's at a loss for words. "I do know," he says, aiming to sound more confident this time. "I'm actually very aware, Dad. I've been carrying it for eight long, life-sucking months."

His dad gives him a hard look. "Not 'it'. You've been carrying your _child_ for eight months."

John reaches out to place his hand on Stiles' stomach, making Stiles flinch. He's the only person other than Derek who's touched him there. "This is your child, Stiles, do you get that yet?" he says again, stern but loving all the same. "It's okay if you don't want to raise him, but you will do him the courtesy of acknowledging him as a person, do you understand me?"

Stiles stares at him, a little shocked. "Yes," he nods, voice shaky. He feels like the wind has been knocked out of his lungs. He’s silent for a moment, breath ragged, and he can’t even blame it on being ill. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly.

John’s hand slips down from his stomach to cover Stiles’ hand. “You've got nothing to be sorry for. I know you’re scared. And I know that the particulars of this situation probably amplify that.” He nods to Stiles’ stomach. “But whether you like it or not, in some shape or form, you are that child’s father.”

Stiles drops his eyes back to his stomach and sucks in a breath. “It’s way more terrifying thinking there’s a person in there than just some nondescript, magic moon baby.”

His dad gives him a small smile. “Being terrified is pretty much what being a parent is all about.”

“Oh, well, someone should have said that sooner. I’ve got terrified down to a science.” His tone is too light for the joke to really work, especially since he’s still staring at his stomach, trying to wrap his mind around this. It’s like he’s seeing things clearly for the first time. But his dad squeezes his hand, and he feels lighter.

“Hi,” Stiles says, resting his other hand on his stomach and taking in a deep breath. “I’m Stiles, can we try this again?”

...

...

It's dusk and he's still laying in bed with the covers shoved down by his feet, the late summer heat making his fever worse. The ceiling fan is spinning on high but it's not enough to keep him cool so there's a wet cloth on his forehead. It's already gone warm. Tangerine is on duty, watching over him while his dad takes a break for dinner. He didn't want to leave Stiles' side but Stiles insisted. If he can't take care of himself, the least he can do was make sure his dad eats and sleeps.

Derek's been gone a week now and Stiles’ fever has come and gone and come back again with a vengeance.

Tangerine returns from the bathroom with a small bowl filled with cold water. She sits next to him and takes the cloth from his forehead to rinse and wring it out with fresh water.

He smiles weakly at her as she dabs it around his face and settles it in place again. "Thanks," he says, and he really hates the way she smiles back with pity written in her features.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better," he lies, his voice croaking without his permission.

She smiles sweetly at him, just watching for a moment. "He'll come back."

Stiles groans. "I don’t need him here. I don't know how many times I have to tell you all."

"Maybe when you can say it without the lie in your heart, I'll believe you."

Stiles rolls his eyes. Fucking werewolves.

His phone dings on the bedside table and she hands it to him. It's a text from Scott. _dude isaac said dereks in twn. whats up?_

Stiles really wishes everyone would stop talking to him about Derek.

He has to make himself focus to text back. _nothing. ask him._

His phone instantly starts ringing and Stiles groans. Having a best friend who cares about you is completely overrated.

He doesn’t get further than sighing into the receiver when Scott says, in a rush, “Dude.”

“I hate you,” Stiles says, and he’s aiming to not sound like a delirious sick person, but he apparently fails, because the line goes silent for a moment.

“Are you okay?”

“Just... pregnancy stuff.” His voice is still rough, even to his own ears, but Stiles thinks he at least sounds less like a stoned, dying frog. “I’m okay.” The look Tangerine is giving him doesn’t seem sympathetic anymore, but she rises, squeezing his shoulder and giving him some privacy.

“Why is Derek back?” Scott asks, refocused.

"What did Isaac say?"

" _Stiles_ ," Scott whines, and fuck if Stiles can resist his best friend sounding this worried.

“I don't know,” he sighs. "We had a fight."

“About what?”

Stiles blows out a frustrated breath. “A lot of shit.” When Scott doesn’t answer him, he knows he’s not going to get away with leaving it at that. “He thinks I was using him.”

“For sex?” Scott asks, tentatively, like it’s painful to even ask.

“For his healing abilities, dude.” The idea of sex, with the exception of the night of the Harvest Moon, makes his stomach curl because, yeah, _pain_.

Scott sighs in relief, then clears his throat. “Were you?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles says, then winces. “I mean... if I was, it wasn’t on purpose. Things just got really awkward between us. Maybe I was ignoring him. Just a little.” Or, okay, a lot.

"What happened? I thought you guys were getting along.”

"We were." Stiles can't help but smile a little when he thinks about Derek’s face that one and only time they’d caught Rufus Bear wearing clothes—a yellow rain jacket and boots, though the sun had been shining brightly in the garden—and how ever since then all Stiles had to do was whisper _galoshes_ to make them both crack up. And he thinks again of the Harvest Moon; watching Derek lounge by the fire, bathed in the full moon's light, being casually close together. Stiles' chest constricts at the thoughts and he has to clear his throat before he talks again. "We, uh, slept together again and it got... weird, after."

"Oh," Scott says and for once doesn't make a noise of protest at Stiles talking about sex with Derek. "What do you think made it weird?"

Stiles has replayed that night in his head a lot. He keeps hoping there's something he missed but it’s always the same: Derek admitted something to him and he froze up. Simple as that. But he's still not sure what Derek really meant, and he thinks that's what has him so confused.

"I _think_ Derek said he lov—liked me."

"You think?" 

“It’s Derek,” Stiles says, and Scott makes a noise of understanding, like that’s all the explanation needed. He sighs. “He hasn’t slept with anyone else. At least since I got pregnant.” 

Scott pauses, a little confused. “Did you think he had?” 

_“I don’t know. I _did_ —I mean, look at him—but he said he didn't want to sleep with anyone else." _

"Oh, so he only wants you?" 

"I guess," Stiles grabs the cloth off his forehead; it's warm again already and it feels rough against his heated skin. "But I just don't know if I was reading him wrong and _I_ made it all awkward after by not talking to him. What if he didn’t mean what I thought he did at all, and he was just abstaining from sex out of some kind of pregnancy solidarity with me?" 

_Scott sighs over the line but it’s with a small laugh. "What?" Stiles balks, "this isn't funny, Scott. I didn't laugh at you when you had all your Allison freak outs."_

"Yes you did," Scott says, sounding amused. 

_"Well... I'm an asshole and you aren't, so stop laughing." He blows out a breath. “What if this is about the baby? Like, baby fever making him want to nest, and I’m Mama Bird, so he thinks he wants to build a nest with me, but he really doesn’t.”_

Scott’s silent for a moment, and Stiles is about to ask if he’s okay, when Scott bursts into laughter. Stiles has to pull the phone away from his ear a little, it’s so loud, and it’s grating to his already over-sensitive nerves. 

“I hate you,” Stiles says. “I’m glad you think my angst is so funny.” 

Scott’s still laughing, but a little less. "Sorry. I'm sorry, man, it's just. You seriously don't get it, do you?" 

"Get what?" he snaps. His head is starting to hurt again and he can actually feel his temperature rising. 

"Dude, Derek is totally in love with you." 

“No, dude, that’s what I’m trying to figure out.” 

Scott laughs, fond and like he thinks Stiles is an idiot. “No, he’s been in love with you for... awhile. Everyone knows it.” 

That makes Stiles pause. “What do you mean, _everyone knows_?” 

“You two haven’t even pretended to hate each other since high school, man. He smells like arousal every time you come around, it’s really pretty gross.” He clears his throat. “He doesn’t even get mad at you for making fun of him anymore. And the way you two look at each other is _disgusting_.” 

“Wait, what? I do not look at Derek Hale any way. Except maybe in a ‘you’re an idiot’ way.” 

Scott snorts. “Yeah, no, dude. You make goo-goo eyes too.” 

“Everyone thinks this?” 

“We had a pool going for when you’d start sleeping together.” He sighs. “Boyd won. You two really couldn’t get your act together any sooner?” 

“You are the worst best friend ever,” Stiles informs him, but his mind is racing. He has to close his eyes, and he tells himself it’s the fever, but even he doesn’t really believe that. "Then why'd he leave?" he asks, quieter. He pretends he doesn't sound as hurt as he feels. "If he really has feelings for me." 

“I don’t know,” Scott says. “Why did he say he was leaving?” 

Stiles winces. “Because he thought us fighting was bad for my health. And the baby’s.” 

“Did you tell him he was an idiot?” 

“No,” Stiles admits, picking at the blanket with his free hand. “I may have told him to get out.” 

Scott makes a sound of protest. "Not cool, man." 

"What was I supposed to do? Beg him? He wanted to go. It’s not like we owe each other anything. There’s no need to _indulge_ each other." He knows he doesn't need to defend himself to Scott—because Scott always has his back—but he needs to work it out for himself and it helps to hear it out loud. 

“Stiles,” he says, and Stiles sits up straighter on instinct, because Scott sounds so much more serious suddenly. “He’s been taking care of you for months. He left his _pack_ alone to be there, for you. You’re the smartest person I know. Are you really going to tell me that you had no idea it wasn’t just sex between you two?” 

Stiles is silent for a long time, before letting out a shaky breath. “I think I might love him,” he says, and whoa, that’s terrifying. He closes his eyes, voice thick. “I think I’ve known for awhile.” 

“It was just easier to ignore it, right?” There’s no judgement in his tone. 

“It’s _scary_ ,” Stiles whispers, rubbing a hand over his face. “Like, I’m having a baby, Scott. An actual baby. Soon. That’s already a lot to deal with... And I thought if I just ignored how Derek felt...” He pinches the bridge of his nose, focuses on his breathing. “How _I_ felt, then that’s at least one less thing to worry about.” Now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop, his voice picking up steam. “Because me and Derek? That’s never going to last. He is the least stable person ever, Scott. He is so stupid he literally created a _magic moon baby_ on accident. I’ve seen him growl at a coffee maker because he couldn’t figure it out, that’s how dysfunctional he is. And he’s got a stupid face, and he likes _cuddling_ , and he brings my dad to me when I need him, and he makes me laugh now and I don’t know when that started, and _fuck_.” 

When he finally cuts off, the room is silent except for his ragged breathing. He feels wrecked. 

“I really messed this up, didn’t I?” he asks, and Scott sighs. 

“I don’t know, man. Why don't you call him and apologize?" 

Stiles’ feels his hopes rise for a split second at the idea, but they’re just as quickly dashed as reality comes crashing back down onto him. 

"And say what?” Stiles asks, laughing sadly. “Hey, Derek, I know I crushed your soul and all, but I’ve had a change of heart, so let’s go steady?” He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think an apology is going to cut it this time. He hates me now.” 

The ache in his body swells to almost unbearable levels at the thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters tomorrow! We're in the final stretch!


	11. Chapter 11

"This is so fucking stupid," he says, slamming the allen wrench onto the floor and crawling under the crib again. "What’s the point of putting the instructions on the bed if they're underneath? I can't read them while I'm putting it together."

Isaac laughs at him from above the crib. "What?" Derek snaps, his patience worn thin by Ikea.

"It's upside down," Boyd says from the rocking chair across the room.

Derek slides to the other side and looks out from under the crib to see him. "What's upside down?"

"The thing the mattress lays on, with the instructions. You put it on upside down." He says it so casually, lightly swaying back and forth, pointing at the crib. Derek has to breathe through his nose so he doesn't shred the crib into pieces.

“And how long have you known that?” he asks, slowly.

Boyd shrugs. “Since you started putting it together?”

Derek grits his teeth. “And you didn’t feel like mentioning it?”

“To be fair,” Isaac interjects, “you did tell us that if we called you an idiot one more time, you were going to hang us out the window.”

Boyd nods to Isaac in agreement.

Derek squeezes his eyes closed. “And you decided to choose today to start listening to me?”

“So you don’t want us to obey? Does that mean we can call you an idiot again?” Isaac’s grinning, and he’s smart enough to move out of range, so Derek can’t kill him.

Derek sighs, and slides out from under the crib. "Just for that, you're finishing it." He scoops up the wrench from the floor and tosses it at Boyd's head. "And if my kid gets hurt sleeping in it, you'll pay."

He gets some satisfaction when Boyd gulps and hurries to get out of the rocking chair. Derek takes his spot and kicks his feet on the coffee table, rocking a few times and looking over all the newly purchased baby items strewn around the room.

When he got back to Beacon Hills, he had been unpacking his bag when he noticed the froggy pajama onesie hanging next to his henley's in his closet and realized it was literally the only baby thing he had. He’d dragged Boyd out shopping with him the next day and started buying everything the people at the baby store said he needed.

"Are you planning to stay here?" Isaac asks eventually. Boyd's nearly done reassembling the crib and he stops where he's tightening a bolt to listen in.

"Yes," Derek says.

Isaac looks incredulous. “Really?” He and Boyd share a look.

“What’s wrong with it?” Derek asks. “It’s warded against anything that isn’t pack, so nothing’s going to get in here.”

“It’s not really child friendly,” Isaac says, running a finger down the rough brick wall he’s leaning against as if to prove his point.

"I fixed the hole in the wall," Derek say, gesturing toward where it had been.

“And where does the kid sleep when it gets too big for the crib?” Boyd asks. “It’s a loft.”

“And don’t say your bed,” Isaac says. “Because there’s no way you, Stiles, and a baby are all going to share a bed for 18 years.”

"The baby's a werewolf, we don't have to worry about baby proofing." He stands and goes to pick up the crib, moving it to the corner of the loft that's been designated 'baby'. "And Stiles won't be here, so don't worry about it."

"Isn't he gonna want to stay with the baby?" Boyd asks.

Derek lets out a breath. He hasn’t heard from Stiles since he got back, and he can only assume that’s because Stiles finally got what he wanted: Derek out of his life.

He doesn't want to get into all of this again but he needs to at least tell his pack. "Stiles doesn't want to be involved. We aren't together—never were and never will be—so stop bugging me about it." He says it more bitterly than he likes but they do him the courtesy of not pointing it out.

Boyd carries the mattress over and they work silently to get the cover and sheet on, which Derek appreciates because he's not sure he can talk about Stiles with anyone right now or he'll end up breaking something. Boyd gives him a reassuring pat on the back.

"We're here to help, man," he says, and Isaac nods in agreement, holding the stuffed wolf he insisted on buying.

Derek doesn't feel grateful for a lot of things in his life but right now he’s never been more glad to have these two idiots in his corner. "Thanks," he grunts, looking away and down at the completed crib.

"Not bad," Isaac says.

Derek nods, still trying to fathom a baby— _his and Stiles' baby_ —sleeping in it. Sleeping here, with him. Now that they’ve got the apartment set up and he can see it all laid out in front of him, it feels real in a way that it hadn’t before.

“You totally owe us pizza now,” Boyd says, squeezing his shoulder once.

After Isaac orders their food, they settle down on the sofa to watch a movie. When his phone starts ringing halfway through _Three Men and a Baby_ (Isaac’s choice, as he’d snickered and refused to change the channel when he found it on TV), Derek reaches for it without glancing at the caller ID, expecting to have to give directions to the delivery man. Again.

“Derek?” John asks, voice tight with fear.

Derek’s off the sofa so fast that Boyd and Isaac just stare at him, startled. He’s already running over every scenario in his head: flashes of Stiles being injured, something attacking the Harrison’s, the bright red burn of fire, _death_.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level.

The Sheriff blows out a shaky breath on the other end of the line, and it does nothing to quell the panic rising in Derek. “He’s had a fever the last few days.” _Since you left_ , Derek’s mind supplies. “But he passed out an hour ago.”

“He’s done it before,” Derek says, quieter. “When he was... really bad.” It had taken him months to get that bad the last time, though, and Derek’s only been away a few days. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” John says, and Derek can hear the fear again. It makes the hair on his arms stand up in warning. “He hasn’t woken up yet. Aurora’s sure he will, but... This isn’t normal, is it?”

“No,” Derek says, already moving for his jacket. “His magic and the Harrison’s, it’s supposed to keep this from happening.”

“He needs you,” John says, and Derek goes still at the words, hand still outstretched towards the hook where his jacket hangs. “And that’s not just about the baby.”

He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. “I’ll be there by nightfall,” he says, and John makes a noise of agreement before they hang up.

Derek’s been so focused on the call that he missed Boyd and Isaac moving off the sofa and around the loft to stand by him, hovering. He can feel the concern and worry radiating off them in waves.

“I have to—” Derek starts, but Boyd rolls his eyes, giving his shoulders a little nudge.

“We’re fine. Just go. Fix him.”

Isaac presses the stuffed wolf into his hands, giving Derek a small smile. “Don’t come back alone next time.”

...

...

The dirt and gravel kicked up by the Camaro hasn’t settled by the time Derek’s parked and hurrying out, making a beeline for the house. He’s had hours stuck inside his car to do nothing but freak out and worry, and he just needs to _see_ now, to check with his own eyes that Stiles and the baby are alive, if not well.

And then, once he’s sure they’re all right, he’s going to kill either Stiles or himself. Maybe both of them.

He hadn’t thought his absence would affect the baby that much. Even when he had been there the last few weeks, Stiles’ health had been declining. Taking away the tension between them, he’d thought it would be enough to make things turn around. The Harrison’s were there. Nothing bad was going to happen.

He’s an idiot, apparently. What else is new?

“Where is he?” he asks Lennon when she greets him just inside the doorway. He knows he sounds frantic, and she just gives him a sympathetic look and motions upstairs toward their old room. “You should have _told me_ ,” he snaps, darting past her and taking the stairs two at a time.

John’s waiting outside the bedroom door and the grave look on his face has Derek’s heart jumping in his chest. He immediately searches out for the heartbeats in the bedroom. He breathes out a shaky sigh of relief when his ears pick them out. He identifies the baby’s, fast and strong, if a little muffled, and Stiles', louder but too slow and stuttering.

“Thanks for coming,” John says, looking a touch relieved at Derek’s presence.

“I should never have left,” he says, nearly choking with guilt. “Is he... how...”

“The same.” John looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He leads Derek into the room, and it's bright with moonlight spilling through the window, casting dark shadows on Stiles' features. He's laying on his side and he should look peaceful because he's asleep, but there's pain etched clearly in his face.

Derek’s chest tightens just looking at him, but something else eases. His wolf is pleased to be near them again, near his _mate_ , whining with a contentment Derek feels guilty for. "H-He hasn't woken up at all?" He hates the way his voice shakes.

When John doesn't say anything, Derek looks at him. His face is sown up, distressed, eyes red and watery and when he finally clears his throat to speak, it's weak and full of fear. "No," he shakes his head, rubbing a hand roughly over his face. "Aurora’s been doing some research. She thinks the baby's nearly ready to be born and he's taking more than Stiles has to give."

"Jesus," Derek hisses.

"It'll help, you being here. It has to," John says. He walks over to Stiles and places his hand on his forehead, brushing his hair back. He leans in to kiss the top of his head and Derek pretends he doesn't hear the "I love you, kid," because it sounds too much like a goodbye and Derek thinks he might vomit if he lets himself go down that path.

"I'm going to get some coffee," John says when he straightens, his shoulders stiff, and he surprises Derek with a hug and a strong clap on his back. He pulls back and looks Derek in the eyes, a firm hand on his shoulder still. "You let go of all that guilt we both know you're drowning in, you hear me? He needs you right now. Do whatever it is you can do and bring him back."

Derek can barely nod, the lump in his throat is so big. He stands there for a moment after John leaves, vibrating with tension and a gut turning fear that he's killed another person he desperately loves. It’s only then that he realizes he’s clutching the damn stuffed wolf in his hand, knuckles white and fisted around its body.

He can feel the panic and guilt rising in him, but he forces himself to push them back down, into the deep, dark place in his mind filed ‘things not to think about’. He’s got the rest of his life to wallow in his grief—instead, he thinks about John's words, and forces himself into action.

He drops the wolf, takes off his jacket and shoes and climbs into the bed, lying down to face Stiles. From here he can see just how bad he looks, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin is pale and sallow. In just a few days, he’s deteriorated to death's door.

Derek moves as close as he can, rests his forehead against Stiles', wraps one arm over his shoulders and places his other hand on his impossibly round stomach. "Stiles," he whispers, his voice shaking, "I'm here. I'm... I'm sorry I left."

There's a flutter under his hand followed by a sharp kick, and he can't help the smile that follows, a small bright spot amidst his desperation.

Derek closes his eyes and focuses on listening to the twin heartbeats coming from Stiles, listening for any change. Stiles is warm in his grip and it’s soothing, just being this close again, and he finds himself being lulled off to sleep.

He’s not sure how much time passes before something shifts against him, and it startles him enough that he blinks his eyes open. It takes him a moment to realize where he is. And another moment to realize that it was Stiles who had moved against him.

Derek’s heart speeds up instantly in hope. Stiles’ eyes are still closed and he isn’t moving now, but Derek’s positive he did before. He zeroes in on the sound of their hearts again, and Stiles’ is definitely stronger now.

“Stiles?” he asks, trying not to sound too desperate.

Stiles whimpers beside him, and Derek suddenly understands why some people have the urge to pump their fist or do cartwheels.

He moves his hand up from Stiles’ back to his cheek, stroking with his thumb. “Stiles,” he says again, louder. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

There’s another distressed noise, and Derek holds his breath as he waits it out, but then Stiles is slowly peeling one eye open to peer at him, a little dazed. “Derek?” he asks, voice thick with exhaustion.

“Yeah,” Derek says, aware that his voice cracks on the word. “I’m here.”

Stiles’ eyes are glassy and he looks like he’s having trouble focusing but they still sweep over the room now as they gain more recognition, likely figuring out just where he is. “You collapsed again,” Derek offers, trying to fill in some of the blanks for him. “You’ve been... out of it for awhile.”

“Baby?” he asks quietly, and Derek nods quickly.

“The baby’s fine.”

“You,” Stiles says, hoarse and confused.

Derek starts to sit up, intending to grab a glass of water sitting on the bedside table as he’s sure Stiles’ throat is dry, but Stiles’ hand reaches out to grab his arm. Even in his weakened state, his grip is firm.

They stare at each other for a moment, and Derek’s heart jumps into his throat.

Eventually, he reaches with his free hand to stroke Stiles’ forehead again, trying to settle him, seeping away some of his pain. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, shifting to lay back down. Stiles seems placated, because his grip loosens, but he still doesn’t let go. “I... Fuck. I shouldn’t have left in the first place.”

Stiles takes in a deep breath, struggling with his words. “Derek,” he says, but it’s still too hoarse. Derek sits up again to get the water, and this time Stiles lets him, now that he understands Derek isn’t trying to leave him alone again. He sucks the water down, with help, and some of it dribbles onto his chin. He coughs once after, but when he speaks again, his voice sounds closer to normal. “I wanted to call you.”

“You should have,” he says, looking at his hands. “If your dad hadn’t called me, Stiles, you could have...” Derek sucks in a breath. He can’t say it.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, and he closes his eyes for a moment.

“For what?” Derek asks, because he can’t really fathom Stiles having to be sorry for anything when he’s in this state.

“You said something, the night of the Harvest Moon.”

Oh. “Stiles,” Derek starts, “we don’t have to talk about that right now.” He’s not sure he can take being rejected again right now.

“No, I want to,” he says, resolute. He shifts his head on the pillow, pulling a little closer to Derek, looking him in the eyes. “I’m sorry for how I reacted. I should have said _something_.” He takes a few breaths, still weak. “It’s a terrible excuse, but I needed to figure some things out.”

Derek’s staring at him, heart pounding again. He has no idea where this conversation is heading. His hands fist the bedsheets, and he focuses on his breathing. Stiles is going to tell him to leave again, now that he’s better, or something worse, and Derek is going to break, all over again.

“I think I did, though. Figure things out, I mean.”

“Oh.” His heart rate is off the charts.

Stiles moves closer to him, his eyes clearly on Derek's lips. "Can I kiss you?" he asks, and Derek's caught completely off guard.

"What?" he says, even though he’s heard perfectly. His heart is still hammering, but for a different reason now.

"I want to kiss you, Derek. I want to kiss _only_ you. Always." Stiles has a sheepish grin and mixed with his sickly complexion, he looks sort of crazed. The slight hope Derek had felt a moment before is dashed. Stiles is still sick and it’s the fever talking, then.

Derek's careful to keep his face impassive. "Stiles, this probably isn't a good time to talk about this. You're not well and I don't want you to say anything you'll regret."

"Are you serious?" Stiles asks, incredulous. Derek nods, trying to keep his wits about him, but then Stiles laughs and fists Derek's shirt in his hands and pulls at him weakly. "Shut up, you're such an idiot."

Derek scowls and it makes Stiles laugh again, loud and full of life. It sounds so much like regular Stiles, the one from before all of this started, that Derek’s heart can finally steady. He’s still got concerns about Stiles’ mental capacity, but considering he was in some sort of coma only hours ago, Derek's shocked at how much better Stiles seems now. So when Stiles pulls at him again, he goes.

It's not a deep passionate, life changing kiss—it's a simple, closed mouth press, and Stiles hums against his lips, looks him in the eyes and whispers, heartbeat steady as a drum, "I love you."

Okay, so it's a life changing kiss.

Derek pulls back, breathing harshly. He stares at Stiles, eyes sweeping over his face as a hundred different thoughts buzz around in his brain.

Stiles gives him the biggest smile Derek’s ever seen on him and slides his hand up to cup Derek’s cheek. Then his expression goes harder and he snaps the fingers on his other hand, even if it’s a little weak. “You, stop with the thinking. I can hear the gears turning from here, and it’s _painful_.”

“You love me,” Derek repeats, slower, testing out the words. “Did you hit your head? Maybe you have a concussion.”

“I deserve that,” Stiles says, nodding. “But no. This is 100% pure and undiluted Stiles Stilinski Confession Hour. Even if it’s really overdue. And okay, maybe it’s not totally undiluted if I’ve had a fever, and the _herbal tea_ they’ve been giving me counts as drugs, but-”

Derek doesn’t let him get further before he kisses him again. Stiles flails against him, caught off guard, but he quickly gets with the program.

In the doorway, John clears his throat. Derek pulls back slowly, clearing his own throat and looking anywhere but at the Sheriff.

Not that it matters, because John’s only got eyes for Stiles. “I heard the laughter,” he says, hesitating in the doorway, like he’s not sure what to do now. Derek moves to get up and give them a minute, but Stiles rests a hand on his arm to still him.

“I’m sorry, Dad," Stiles says, quiet, and it’s enough to get John moving. He’s beside the bed in a second, leaning down to embrace his son. Derek can hear how Stiles’ breath catches, how relieved they both are.

John inhales sharply. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, kid. You really had us worried for awhile, though. I’m just glad you’re awake.”

Stiles closes his eyes, and Derek still feels like he’s intruding, but Stiles _wants him to stay_ , so he’s not going anywhere. “You called Derek,” Stiles says. It’s not a question. “I... thank you.”

John presses a kiss to his forehead before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Had a hunch. Looks like I wasn’t wrong.”

“The baby and I both agree that it _sucks_ when you’re not here,” Stiles says, gaze flickering over to Derek.

Derek suddenly remembers the plush wolf, and he scans the room quickly before he spots where it’s fallen onto the floor. He bends to scoop it off the floorboards, holding it out. “That’s... for you.”

Stiles is looking at him like... well, like he thinks Derek is awesome. Derek’s stomach is in knots.

“Thank you,” Stiles says, studying the wolf. “Only baby shower gift I got,” he says, jokingly, but that has Derek thinking again. If Stiles loves him, and wants to be with him, then what about the baby? He's made himself very clear in the past, and he hasn't expressed any interest in wanting to be a part of the baby's life.

"You're thinking again," Stiles says, looking back at him. When Derek looks up, he and John are both watching him, contemplatively. "What is it?"

Derek shakes his head. "We don't have to—"

"Yes we do," Stiles interrupts, "no more miscommunication. Spit it out, Hale."

"I...uh," Derek hesitates.

"I'll give you two some privacy," John says, patting Stiles' knee. He leans in to give Stiles another hug and kiss to the forehead, much to Stiles' chagrin. He's blushing, red splotches along his neck and cheeks. Derek wants to taste them but he squashes the urge. Now is not the time.

Stiles focuses his attention back on him once John closes the door behind him.

"What about the baby?" Derek asks, and he has to look away from Stiles, afraid of the answer he'll get.

“What about him?” Stiles asks, but he’s not angry.

Derek takes in a breath to steady himself before he looks back to Stiles. “You said you were through with werewolves before. Baby included.”

Stiles’ gaze drops down to his stomach, and he rests a hand there as he thinks. “I was mad when I said that. You know I didn’t mean it. I mean, can you imagine if I really tried to get rid of all of you? Scott would stage a protest in my front yard or something. Boyd would just rip off my front door.”

Derek can tell he’s aiming for levity, but it still doesn’t address the question he really wants answered. “Stiles,” he says, voice gone a little rough.

Stiles blows out a shaky breath. “Yeah, I know, I know... Look, I spent a really long time angry at this baby, because of all the pain and because of everything else. I mean, I should be at school right now worrying about my grades and where to party on Friday night, not at a hippie werewolf commune wondering if I’m eating enough protein.”

A fresh wave of guilt is building. “I’m sor—” Derek starts, but Stiles shakes his head at him.

“No, dude, I know you are. You didn’t mean for this to happen. I just needed to be mad at someone. You, the baby, anyone.”

Some of the weight Derek’s been carrying lifts at the words. His breath catches in his throat, but he forces out, “So what does that mean now? About the baby?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, running his hand over his stomach. It’s more affection than Derek’s ever seen him have toward the baby, and it fills him with newfound hope. “I know if you’re in my life, if the pack is in my life, this baby is going to be, in some form. And I’m okay with that now. I just don’t know if I’m ready to be... a dad,” Stiles continues, laughing anxiously. “That’s still really fucking scary. But I’m hoping maybe... we can figure it out?”

He looks at Derek, nervous and hopeful all at once.

“Together,” Derek agrees.

...

...

Derek shoots another angry, fierce glare at the latest werewolf, Pickles, who is trying to sit on the sofa with them. He’d objected to them moving downstairs at all—but Stiles had said he was going to go stir crazy if he had to stare at the bedroom walls one minute more, and Derek finally relented when, and only when, Stiles agreed to let him carry him just in case he had another fainting spell.

He’ll be damned if he’s letting anyone else near Stiles right now though. The only exception being John, who’s seated to Stiles’ left, and leaning forward to study the book Aurora has laid out on the coffee table in front of them.

“Even with my glasses, I’m not going to be able to read this, am I?” John asks, running his fingers over the runes on the page.

“It’s taken me awhile to translate it,” Aurora says. “But my first guess was right. His journey to life is almost complete.”

“The baby’s ready to be born?” Stiles asks, and Derek’s glad one of them can translate Aurora’s babblings. “But I’m not due for another month.”

“The moon is soon,” Aurora explains, pointing at some of the runes in the book. Derek thinks they mostly look like nonsensical squiggles. He’s pretty sure that one’s a moon, but the ones next to it looks like a dyslexic child’s scribble and a squirrel.

“Last full moon here, I felt great,” Stiles argues. “I thought being around the pack helped.”

“It does,” Aurora agrees. “But the baby is stronger now. So strong that even the energy it’s able to draw from us isn’t enough anymore.”

“Is that why he got so sick so fast?” Derek asks.

“Partially,” she says, shooting him another look. There’s still no love lost between them, that’s good to know. “There were other factors.”

“Don’t worry, Aurora,” Stiles says beside him, sounding chipper, even though Derek can tell it’s a strain on him just sitting here. The difference in him since Derek's return merely a day ago is staggering, but he’s far from healed. “Derek’s always got enough guilt swirling around in him to float an armada.”

Derek frowns. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yeah? Well, neither does your guilt,” Stiles shoots back.

Aurora looks between them, calm, but Derek can tell her patience is wearing thin. “Are you ready for me to continue now?”

Yeah, he’s going to be paying for leaving for a long time. He and Stiles both nod. “So what does that mean?” Derek asks.

"The moon is speeding things up. It’s likely to happen very soon. Probably in the next few days.”

“Is that safe?” Stiles asks, resting one hand on his stomach.

Aurora pauses. “It's likely the birth will require an enormous amount of energy and could be a heavy toll on Stiles and the baby," she says, face serious and concerned.

Derek's stomach is in knots just thinking about Stiles having to go through more of this pain and exhaustion. “So what can we do?”

"It will help for you to be near again," she says and gives him a stern look, like she expects him to run off again. It doesn't help the sick feeling in his gut. "But ultimately, Stiles is the main connection to the baby, the main energy source. He may be able to handle it if he can summon his magic."

"How am I supposed to do that during the birth?" Stiles' voice sounds frantically high and Derek lays his hand over his to help calm his nerves even though Derek's feeling a similar panic. "Labor is supposed to be the most painful part. If it's worse than the worst pain I've felt so far, there's no way I’ll be able to concentrate on channeling anything."

She leans forward, putting her hands on his knees. “It’s not going to be easy,” she says.

“ _Nothing_ about this has been easy,” Stiles says, laughing anxiously. “But you’re essentially asking me to write a dissertation when I’ve just started learning how to spell. _Not going to happen_.”

“Your problem,” she says, and Derek sits up straighter at the tone in her voice, “is that you’re not sure what you want.”

“I’d like to live,” Stiles says. “See? Done.”

Aurora shakes her head at him. “Your thoughts are too scattered. They have been since you arrived. You’re better now, but you’re going to have to _dig deep_ and focus this time. You need to ground your thoughts.”

“I’ve been trying to do that for weeks,” Stiles says, exasperated. “It hasn’t been working.”

Aurora sits back up. “Maybe you don’t have the right anchor,” she says. “Or maybe you just need the right motivation.”

“You’re proposing that crippling pain is going to spur me to action,” Stiles says, staring at her. “You’re as awesome of a teacher as Derek is.”

Aurora seems to know he’s just frustrated, because she lets it go. Derek squeezes his knee, but then something occurs to him. “What happens if he can’t do this? If he can’t shield himself?”

She levels them with a grave look. “Nothing good.”

“But _what happens_?” Derek repeats, firmer. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach is getting worse.

Aurora hesitates, then nods. “The baby could drain him completely. He could die.”

Derek has to grip the edge of the sofa to keep himself calm, because he doesn’t want to upset Stiles more than he probably already is. But _fuck_. Derek’s just got him back in his life, and Stiles _loves_ him. He can’t lose him. He can’t go through this again with anyone else.

Stiles breathes out through his nose. “Well, nothing like honesty.”


	12. Chapter 12

Derek won't take him out to the chicken coop, he says he's too weak to be out in the autumn air in a dirty shed. He's not technically wrong but Stiles has had most of his successful experiences with the chickens and this is the most important of all.

So now, instead, he's in their room because he's actually too weak to get out of bed and he's conned Rufus Bear into bringing the chickens to him. Derek didn't agree, because Stiles didn't ask or tell him, but the chickens have already made themselves at home, scurrying around the bed, their talons clicking against the wood floors like the pattering of rain.

It's not the same as the coop but it does the trick. He's sitting up against the headboard in his meditation pose—or as close as he could get being eight months pregnant. He's concentrating on his breathing, counting the breaths, and he's trying to focus, to find that one thing that grounds him more than anything else.

In the past when he and Aurora have done this, he’s used Scott as his anchor. He’s been the one constant in Stiles’ life, the one thing that no matter what else is going on, that Stiles is assured he can count on and that’s going to make him feel better.

But Aurora seems convinced that there’s something stronger he might be able to latch onto, and that that might be the reason he hasn’t been able to get a firm grasp on his magic yet.

So he tries to think about his dad, while still counting his breaths, and envisioning the air and the energy, and to stop his mind from wandering, all at the same time. He might as well be trying to ride a unicycle while chewing gum and singing _The Star Spangled Banner_ while clapping his hands together. It feels impossible.

Stiles is totally going to die.

He opens his eyes, blowing out a shaky breath at that thought. The full moon’s only a day away, and his dad and Derek have been unusually quiet since Aurora explained things to them. Explained that if Stiles can’t do this, can’t protect himself with his magic, the baby is probably going to kill him. They’re both trying to be reassuring, to remain upbeat and positive, but Stiles isn’t an idiot and he can see the fear etched onto their every expression, their every look at him.

And they’ve been so _quiet_. If Stiles is going to die, he doesn’t want silence around him. He wants to make out with Derek, and to talk to his dad about work, and just feel normal again. Stiles is pretty sure they’re hoping with a little space, he might be able to focus better. But it just makes him feel like he’s going _crazy_.

He groans and leans his head back, listening to the chickens scratch along the floorboards.

The door opens just a crack, and when Stiles turns toward it, only then does Derek open it the rest of the way. “There are chickens,” Derek says, surveying the room. He doesn’t seem particularly surprised by this development.

“Yes, there are. And you’ve been listening in on me,” Stiles says, and Derek looks sheepish, but doesn’t argue.

“You sounded frustrated,” he says, hesitating before maneuvering past the chickens to sit on the bed. He’s got a glass of milk in his hands, and he holds it out. When Stiles takes it, he realizes it’s warm. “My mom used to make us warm milk when we were having a hard day. I thought... I don’t know.”

“No, it’s good,” Stiles says, and he takes a sip, even if his stomach rolls. What progress he’d made over the weeks here with food has pretty much been shot to hell now. “You don’t have to leave soon, you know. Stay. Talk. Pull up a chair.”

“I’m never sitting in that chair again,” Derek says so firmly that Stiles actually laughs weakly.

“Noted, man. But stay.”

“Just for a few minutes. You need to -”

“I need to be focusing on focusing,” Stiles says, crossing his fingers over his heart. “I know, Derek. Trust me, I know.”

Derek watches him for a long moment. “It’s not funny,” he says, slowly.

“It could be deadly funny.” Stiles quirks a brow back at him, aiming to get him to smile, but Derek just flinches.

“Stiles,” he says, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to get a lecture on inappropriate humor for the 2000th time in his lifetime. Derek looks incredibly serious, and it’s taking most of Stiles’ willpower not to crack another joke, because he needs the tension lighter, _now_. “I love you.”

Not a lecture then. That probably would have been easier. Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “I love you too.”

“And I believe that you can do this.”

The pity and worry that has been on Derek’s face the last two days seems to have vanished, and it’s been replaced by an unshakeable determination. There are tears pricking at Stiles' eyes, but he doesn’t move to wipe them away. “That makes one of us,” Stiles says, quieter.

“You can do this,” Derek says, firmer. “Because you are the most stubborn, willful _brat_ I have ever known.”

“This is your pep talk?” Stiles asks, voice cracking on the end. “It sucks.”

“You’ve never listened to anyone a day in your life. So the only thing you _need_ to do? Is be yourself, and prove everyone wrong, because that’s what _you do_.”

Stiles closes his eyes, overwhelmed, until he gets his breathing under control. Derek gives him that moment, then leans forward and kisses him, lightly.

Stiles makes a frustrated noise when Derek pulls back to stand up, but he raises his brows at Stiles to silence him and slips out again. “Your pep talks are better than Finstock’s were,” Stiles mutters, aware that Derek’s undoubtedly still listening in on him. “But that’s all I’ll give you.”

He likes to imagine that Derek rolls his eyes in response.

It takes a few minutes before his head feels clear enough to try again, but he feels more determined to get it right this time. Stiles closes his eyes, getting back into position, and breathes in and out slowly, in and out. He tries to think about something that makes him feel _grounded_ , that keeps him connected, anything that might serve as an anchor. What had Derek said?

An anchor is the _thing that feels most real_.

Stiles wishes he had a damn clue what that is.

But he’s focusing, trying to will his mind to be a blank slate, to let everything just pass through him the way Aurora’s taught him.

Slowly, images start flashing through his head, like old home movies spliced together, fragmented, as he tries to find the magic sweet spot. His parents taking him to the zoo, swinging him by his arms. The look on his dad’s face when he’d made the lacrosse team freshman year. Scott holding his hand at his mother’s funeral. Breaking his arm in third grade. The way his mother’s hair always smelled of lavender. Peter hovering over Lydia’s bloodied body in the football stadium. Derek’s smile as he played with Seagull in the garden.

There’s a pop of color on the inside of his eyelids, and he can feel the energy shifting in the room again, the way it had in the chicken coop that day, but stronger. He can feel something thrumming through his veins, and it’s not pain this time.

...

...

Derek's sitting against the headboard and Stiles is between his legs, curled into him with Derek's arms wrapped around him, hands touching skin to draw away some of his misery. He's shaking with the pain, the intensity coming and going like rolling waves.

The curtains are drawn, because even the light of the moon outside, bright and angry as it nears its apex in the sky, is hurting his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks Derek, taking another deep breath, the pain on a downturn.

"I had just gotten you pregnant, I wasn't about to throw the word 'mate' around. You would have murdered me."

“Not _murder_ ,” Stiles says, thinking about it. It’s better than thinking what’s happening to his body.

Derek rubs his nose against his hair. “Yeah, totally, murdered. You were _mad_. I get why, though.”

“That’s big of you.” Stiles sucks in a breath at a sudden, his side feeling as if it’s been knifed, and he tries to bring his attention back to Derek.

“Besides,” Derek continues, “I thought maybe Sherice had gotten it wrong, and we didn’t have to be mates. It’s still not like there’s a handbook on Blue Moon Male Babies.”

“But you’re sure now?”

Derek covers his hand with his, squeezing, for a moment. “Yeah. I am. I think I was before, too, it was just...”

“Scary.” Stiles nods, thinking for a moment. “So mates. Are we like, werewolf-married now?”

“You _are_ carrying my firstborn.” Derek's voice is soft against his ear but he sounds a little amused. Stiles is glad, he doesn't want his last memories of Derek to be the guilt ridden, mopey Derek he's seen the past few days.

Not that he's going to die. Well, he might die. Then, the acute stabbing in his abdomen scales back up, radiating through his entire body. "There will be no secondborn. _Shit_ ," he hisses, the words gasping from his lips. He's probably going to die.

Derek's arms tighten around him, his hands gently rubbing along Stiles’ arms, trying to comfort him. It doesn't help but Stiles appreciates the effort.

He's pretty sure his magic is doing its thing. He can't imagine what this would feel like without it, even if he's not completely sure it's actually channeling the earth’s energy, or whatever. Jesus, he can't think straight through it. It's agony, the most intense cramping and curling of all his nerves at once, and he wants to move, to have friction help ease it but it only makes it worse. He just presses closer to Derek and breathes through it until he can feel it easing.

"It's getting worse," Derek says and Stiles can only nod. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"No... just talk. I know that's usually my thing but I think I'll let you take over today." He can feel Derek swallow but then he nods.

"What... uh, what do you think it'll be?" It takes Stiles a moment to realize he means the baby.

"A werewolf." His attempt at humor would probably go better if he wasn't cringing with crippling pain but that's just sort of his life now.

"Ha ha," Derek deadpans. Stiles appreciates he's going along with it, at least.

"If it’s a boy, I think we should name him Rufus Bear."

“Over my dead body,” Derek growls, and Stiles tries to laugh a little, but it dovetails into a coughing fit that has him curling in on himself. His lungs constrict, making him choke for an agonizing minute until he can finally gasp out a breath. Derek hands smooth down his arms again until he’s more settled. He’s a solid, comforting presence for Stiles but he can feel the frustrated rumble vibrating in Derek's chest.

“No laughing,” Stiles croaks.

“I think,” Derek says after a moment, fingers tracing indecipherable patterns onto his skin, “I’d like to name the baby something that has a history. Like my mom’s name. Or your dad’s.”

“Make something good out of something bad,” Stiles says, testing it out in his mind. “So you’re going with John Jr. over Rufus Bear, then? Really?”

“Okay,” Derek says, smiling. “Maybe not that either.”

Stiles groans and recoils into himself further as another spasm rolls through, and Derek shifts his hands to Stiles’ stomach, rubbing in slow circles.

It passes but there's more and more pain lingering each time. The throbbing in his head is so strong, it's blackening the edges of his vision. He tries to concentrate again, to channel more in an effort to get even a little bit of a reprieve from the pain. He's not sure if it works or not.

He realizes a few moments too late that Derek's talking again, and he sounds muffled, miles away.

"...put it together myself but I did it wrong. Boyd fixed it."

"That's... good," he says, trying to sound like he's at least a little aware of what Derek's talking about but it doesn't work. He's breathing too heavily now.

"Derek," his voice is weak, it's hard to talk now—hard to breathe—but he needs to say this. For Derek. "I don't want you to blame yourself."

"Stiles," Derek warns, letting out a harsh breath. "Don't."

"No, listen... I blamed you for a long time, and I'm sorry." He has to stop for a few breaths before he can go on. "This isn't your fault. It just is what it is... Maybe this baby can be the one good thing I've done."

" _Stiles_ ," Derek snarls now, his eyes flashing red and his face twisted with fear and anger.

"Shut up," Stiles hisses at him, his throat tight and eyes watering. "Let me say this. I have to... Just, don't let little Rufus feel guilty either." He knows Derek of all people will understand what he’s trying to say but the words still get stuck in his throat. He clears it, coughing a little in the process. "I don't want our baby to feel responsible for this."

“You’re going to be _fine_ ,” Derek says, voice cracking on the words as he grips Stiles tighter.

Stiles breath is ragged, and his vision’s started sliding, unable to focus on anything, and it’s making him feel dizzy. He has to close his eyes to drown that out and focus on his words.“You need to promise,” he says. “No feeling guilty.”

“I’m not promising anything,” Derek says, and Stiles can tell he’s trying to sound confident, but there’s a terrified tone to his voice. “You can tell our baby whatever the hell you want yourself.”

“Derek,” Stiles chokes out, a little more frantic. Above him, Derek exhales sharply.

“Aurora!” Derek shouts, but his eyes don’t leave Stiles’. "I can't," Derek starts but he loses his words. "Please, Stiles, I can't lose you too," he whispers into Stiles' hair. “Please,” he says, desperate. “You’re my mate, you can’t, I need -”

Derek's words fade out and Stiles lets out a sharp, ragged breath as the pain and black void overtake him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final two chapters tomorrow! Thank you so much for everyone who's been sticking with us. We're so excited to share the rest with you.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last scene in this chapter is for you, anon.

John’s got her cradled in his arms, smiling down at her with a lightness Derek’s never seen before on him.

“She, uh,” John says, having to stop to clear his throat when it catches. “She looks like Rose... Stiles' Mom," he says, looking up at Derek with watery eyes. Derek nods and John looks back to her—she's awake now—and makes a silly face. “Hey sweetheart, I’m grandpa. Grandpa?” He asks, looking back to Derek.

Derek shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

“I think I’ll be Popsicle and then you can call me Popi,” he says after a moment’s thought, bopping her nose with his finger. “She has your eyes, Derek.”

Derek looks back to where Stiles is laying in bed, eyes still closed as he sleeps. His breath is still coming out ragged, but he’s _alive_. “Thank god she got his ears.” He shifts his hands from Stiles’ arm to his neck, still trying to draw away more of the pain.

When he looks back at them, John is still grinning down at her. “I hope you turn out exactly like your fathers so they can get a taste of their own medicine.”

Derek wants to scowl back and make some quip about how she’s already burdened with an unfunny grandparent, but John is still the Sheriff and owns an arsenal of weapons, and Derek would prefer not to die today. John seems to sense it anyway. “How can your daddy be so grumpy today with you here, huh?” he asks her, grinning so hard Derek thinks his face must hurt.

Derek’s not—grumpy, that is. He’s just not going to feel settled until Stiles opens his eyes again. He’s been out for hours, staying awake only long enough to hold her, smile at Derek, and say ‘I’m going to pass out now’ so Derek’s pretty sure he’ll be okay, after making it through _that_.

But he needs to see for himself.

“You’ll let me see her, right?” John asks, face serious all of a sudden.

Derek looks at him, confused. “What?”

“I just,” he pauses, words unsure. “I don’t know what Stiles will do, and I don’t want to pressure him into anything, but I’d really like to be a part of her life.”

Derek doesn’t know how Stiles could stay away from her, now that he’s seen her, but he really hopes he won’t. “Whatever happens, you’re welcome anytime.”

John smiles at him. “Good. Because somebody’s got to spoil her,” he says turning back to her.

Stiles shifts then, under Derek’s hand, a soft moan coming from him. Derek moves his other hand to Stiles’ and takes away as much as he can. It’s the least he can do, after what Stiles just went through, for him.

Stiles shifts again, and Derek’s heart speeds up, thinking that he might actually be awake now. Derek can’t explain the need to see him right now, alert and _normal_ , but it’s overwhelmingly strong. “Stiles?” he asks, leaning closer.

There’s no response at first, then Stiles squints his eyes open, peering up at him, and Derek can feel the tension drain out of his own body. “Hey,” Derek says, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

“Let’s not do that again,” Stiles says, crinkling his nose, and Derek lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Deal,” he says, smiling. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got run over by a tugboat, instead of the Titanic.”

Derek nods. “Good enough. It will get better, too.” He puts a hand back on Stiles’ forehead to ease some more of the pain, Stiles closes his eyes and leans into his touch. Derek glances over at John, then, and notices how unsure he looks. It takes him a moment to realize why—does Stiles even want to hold the baby again? Does he want...

“Where is she?” Stiles asks, still a little drowsy, but answering the unspoken question.

John brings her over, giving Stiles a small smile. “Hey kid.”

“Hi Dad,” he says but his eyes are on the bundle in John’s arms. She's wrapped in a multicolored crocheted blanket made for her by Lennon. Derek can’t control the smile from spreading across his face when Stiles takes hold of her, looking as natural as ever. “I have no idea how to hold a baby,” Stiles says, though evidence would prove contrary.

“You’re doing just fine,” John says, standing back with his hands in his pockets, looking happier than Derek’s ever seen him in all the years he’s known him.

Stiles is looking at her like she’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Derek can relate. “Wow,” Stiles whispers, “Hi little one.”

He stares at her for a long time, before his gaze flickers to Derek. “I don’t even know her name. What did you pick?”

Derek shifts on his feet, suddenly unsure. “I wanted to...” Wait. For Stiles. But he’s not so sure that was the right choice, given that he’s still not sure what Stiles _wants_. He clears his throat, stumbling over his words, until John comes to his rescue.

“He thought you might like a say.”

Derek holds his breath, watching Stiles as he looks up at him again. “Oh,” he says.

Derek’s heart sinks a little.

He looks down at their daughter again, though, and smiles at her. “So you need a name, huh? Derek already said we can’t call you Rufus Bear. I might anyway, though.” He lowers his voice to whisper just to her. “Just because it’ll make him mad.”

John clears his throat to smother a laugh.

The corners of Stiles’ eyes are crinkled when he looks back at Derek. “You said something with a history. What if we named her after both our moms?”

Derek holds his breath again, but nods slowly.

Stiles mulls it over for another moment. “Talia Rose Stilinski.” He grins down at her. “What do you think? You like that?”

 _Oh_.

Derek’s breath catches in his throat, because he really doesn’t want to get this wrong. “I thought you weren’t sure about...”

“I wasn’t,” Stiles admits, clearing his throat and turning to look at him again. “But uh, when I was...” He nods his head a little shakily, and Derek understands what he’s referring to. Knows just how close they really came to Stiles not being here right now.

“I thought of you,” Stiles continues. “I mean, I used you. As my anchor. I’m still not entirely sure I get the logistics of _mates_ , but you’ve always made me feel something.” He’s nervous, Derek can tell, and the only reason he’s not picking at something with his hands is because he’s got a baby in them. “Anger, half the time, but something. And that... connection, that’s what saved me. I could feel it, feel you, I don’t know how else to explain it.” He looks back down at Talia. “She’s part of that connection too.” He breathes shakily. “She’s part of _us_. I get that now.”

The air feels like it’s trapped in Derek’s lungs and he just stares at Stiles, afraid to speak. When he finally manages, he says, quietly, “Hale.”

Stiles looks back at him again, confused. “What?”

“Her last name,” Derek says, nodding to their daughter. “It’s Hale.”

Stiles’ brows inch up his forehead. “And why is that? So help me, Derek, if you say because I’m the woman in this relationship...”

A small smile spreads across his face and he shrugs. “You said it, not me.”

...

... 

John’s already got the car packed with their suitcases and the car seat he’d purchased in town (because Derek has one, shiny and new and sitting in his loft, but it doesn’t do them much good here) by the time Derek and Stiles make their way downstairs. Stiles has Talia wrapped up and is cradling her in his arms, leaving Derek to hover, not really sure what to do with his hands. Since her birth, all Derek wants to do is _touch_ Stiles and Talia. Which, combined with his fears of somehow breaking her, makes him feel clumsy and awkward with his own limbs in a way he’s never experienced. He thinks it might be what being human feels like. It sucks.

Sherice is waiting at the bottom of the stairs for them, and she embraces Stiles first. “You are welcome back any time,” she tells him, before turning to Derek and pulling him into a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing her a little. He’s always been terrible at expressing how he really feels, but the idea of seeming ungrateful after everything they’ve done for him makes him need to try harder. “You don’t know how much I appreciate all of your help.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I am so happy for how far you’ve come. And we’ll always do anything for you. You’re family now.”

Derek’s pretty sure she means in some spiritual, connected-to-the-earth kind of way, but it makes his chest ache a little with a swell of emotion.

“Dude,” Stiles whispers beside him once Sherice has stepped aside. “If you take that long to say goodbye to everyone, we won’t get out of here until sunset.”

When they step outside, Derek’s pretty sure their plan to just say a few quick goodbyes and get on the road is already dashed, as the entire pack is gathered outside. A few are holding... shovels.

Derek’s learned not to question.

Aurora approaches first. “Derek,” she says, warmer than he’s ever heard her speak to him. It’s still not what he’d call friendly. He nods back to her.

She gives Stiles a gentle hug, careful of Talia sleeping between them in Stiles' arms. "I knew you could do it," she says, her eyes sparkling with tears. "Keep at it and you'll do some amazing things. Well, _more_ amazing things," she says, smiling down at the baby.

Stiles flushes, nodding, his throat working. "Thank you, for teaching me and for not putting up with my crap."

"You were a gem compared to my Rufus." She smiles at him sweetly. “May I?” she asks, holding her hands out toward Talia.

Stiles carefully hands her to Aurora, and Derek’s still in awe at how natural Stiles is with her. He’d say something about maternal instinct but he’s pretty sure Stiles would castrate him.

They make their way through saying their goodbyes to each pack member. Derek makes sure to thank them all individually, even if they didn't have as much interaction with everyone, they all welcomed them into their home and lives and played a part in saving Talia and Stiles, and by extension Derek.

Finally the pack members with shovels step together, with Rufus Bear out in front. He's still as naked as the first time Derek reluctantly laid eyes on him, and Derek has a sinking feeling that they’re going to be inducted into some group ritual, or that there are going to be more _hugs_.

Rufus spreads his arms out, tilting his chin toward the sky. “In honor of Talia Rose Hale -”

“Stilinski,” Stiles cuts in, but Rufus doesn’t appear to be listening.

“-we would like to plant this tree, so that she may grow as tall and strong as it will. And so that her memory will forever be preserved here.”

Some of the wolves step aside now, revealing a redwood sapling. It looks rather pitiful right now, more like a Charlie Brown tree, but they seem very pleased with themselves. Derek finds that he’s actually really touched, even if he can’t quite explain why. One of the wolves lets out a long, joyous sounding howl—and then the whole pack is joining in, except for Rufus, who seems to be crowing instead.

They watch as the pack begins to plant the tree, and Derek’s not sure when Rufus disappeared, but he reappears a moment later in front of them grasping a floral-patterned cushion. He holds it out to Derek, smiling. “For you,” he says, and Derek stares at it, confused. It’s obviously not new, and actually, it looks like Eucalyptus has possibly taken a few chunks out of it. It seems like a strange gift.

“Um, thanks?” he says, taking it when Rufus continues to nudge it toward him. Beside him, Stiles is staring at them, shaking with silent laughter.

“For your lap,” Rufus explains, patting Derek’s shoulder. He then pulls him into a quick, bone-crushing hug, while Derek tries desperately to tilt his body away. After a moment, he gives in, shoulders sagging, and pats Rufus Bear’s back lightly.

A few of the other pack members give them gifts: clothes, a few crocheted blankets, a necklace made out of acorns, and one particularly creepy handmade doll from Humor.

Sherice appears again, now holding Talia, and she hands her to Derek. "If I haven't said it before, I'm very pleased you came to us. Our families have a rich history of friendship and I hope we can start new traditions with your Hale pack line."

Derek nods, "I'd like that."

"Wonderful! I hope we see one another before but I do hope your entire pack will come join us for the next Harvest Moon."

Next to him Stiles stifles a laugh and Derek shoots him a look but before either can say anything, Sherice says, with a wicked smile, "I believe you enjoyed this year’s quite a lot."

Derek chokes on air and Stiles flushes bright red. Behind them John clears his throat and Derek tries to die from mortification. Thankfully John’s not particularly cruel so he ignores them to focus his attention on Talia, taking her from Derek. She already has John wrapped around her finger. Hell, they all are.

"I'll get her strapped into the carseat," he says, cradling her and kissing her forehead. Derek’s grateful, and not just because he has no idea how to do _that_ yet.

When he looks back, the pack is watching them, swaying a little in time with the guitar one of them has out now. They remind him, lack of clothing and shampoo aside, of his own pack, his own family, and he finds that he actually feels connected to these people.

Derek howls again, and the pack gives an answering call back in goodbye.

It’s still another quick round of hugs from Rufus, Aurora and Sherice before they can get into the car, and as they drive away, Derek can make out Lief and Seagull in the rearview mirror, racing down the road after them for a minute, waving and cheering them on, and Derek feels _good_ about life, really good. For the first time in a long time.

It only lasts for a few moments, as Talia starts screaming in the backseat.

...

... 

Derek’s never seen this many cupcakes in his life. “Did you send out a memo telling everyone to get cupcakes?” he asks Isaac, as he keeps staring at his kitchen counter. He hadn’t realized quite how many there were until now, when he’s seeing them all laid out before him—it had been nice when Isaac and Boyd showed up with a box. It had been odd when Peter turned up with expensive, designer cupcakes (which are apparently a thing), said a quick hello to Stiles, and then disappeared again. It had been amusing when Allison handed him a plate of homemade ones before immediately dashing off to see Talia. But the ones Scott has brought over, which are clearly store bought and partially melted from sitting in his car, are the final straw.

For one, he’s got no more counter space.

“Dude,” Isaac says, staring at him and talking around a mouthful of something called _Hunka Chunka Banana Love_. “Why are you asking _me_?”

Derek doesn’t even _like_ cupcakes.

“I don’t know, didn’t you invite them?” he asks, motioning to his living room full of people.

Isaac snorts. “No, man. Stiles invited Scott, who obviously invited Allison, and then to keep it from being a couples thing, he called me too. And I invited Boyd.” He gives Derek a look that says ‘duh’, then pauses. “I don’t know who called Peter.”

“This is my life now,” Derek sighs.

He huffs a little and returns to the living room, where Allison is cooing over Talia as she rocks her. Stiles and Scott are on the sofa, shoulders touching and deep in conversation.

Stiles looks good, healthy. _Finally._ Derek breathes a sigh of relief just to see him laugh and flail his arms as he talks, without any obvious pain. He's tired, with light circles under his eyes, but thankfully now it's from taking care of a newborn and not from constant, draining pain.

When Derek thinks about everything Stiles went through, the physical toll and exhaustion on top of the emotional strain, he's filled with a pride and astonishment for Stiles. Derek's not sure he could have handled most of it, and he's a werewolf.

“So like... what happened?”

Derek’s attention to drawn back to Stiles and Scott. Scott’s leaning forward, somewhere between fascinated and horrified. “I mean, was it like... how did you even... _how did that happen_?”

“Honey,” Allison says in warning.

Stiles gives him a serious look. “Scott, buddy, trust me on this, you _do not_ want to know.”

Scott closes his gaping mouth at that, mulling it over, and looking a little terrified that he even asked. Derek takes the momentary distraction to claim the spot on Stiles’ other side, resting one hand on his knee. Stiles’ own hand covers his, and Derek doesn’t know if he’s ever going to get used to the way that makes his heart rate stutter.

“How do you like being parents?” Allison asks, grinning down at Talia. “Of the most beautiful baby girl in the world, yes you are.”

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but it’s Stiles who answers first, all smiles. “It’s _exhausting_. But totally awesome.” He leans across the coffee table to reach Allison in the rocking chair, stroking the back of Talia’s hand lightly with his finger. Derek’s not aware he’s staring until he notices Scott watching him, laughing into his fist. Derek scowls back.

“You realize that it’s your turn next,” he says, and Derek delights when Scott’s smile falters a little.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Allison says, smiling over at them.

Isaac returns from the kitchen, a few cupcake crumbs still stuck to his shirt as he drops himself onto the floor to sit. “Yeah, because this place _reeked_ of Derek’s mopiness before.”

“Now it just smells like poop and exhaustion,” Boyd says from where he’s leaning against the wall. Derek’s going to have to get more seating soon, if people are always going to be over—and it’s quickly looking that way. “Way better,” Boyd says, giving Derek a smile.

Stiles straightens up and leans against Derek, who puts his hand on Stiles’ thigh, absently stroking as he half-listens to Allison and Scott’s story about some gremlin they chased out of town a week ago.

Derek finds himself tuning it out and looking around the loft instead, at how full it seems now with a room of people, full of _pack_. Plus all of the baby’s things, and the items of Stiles’ that John’s been bringing over once a day, every time Stiles remembers something else he’s forgotten. Derek’s almost positive it’s just an excuse to see his dad every day, especially when Stiles swore he needed his dad to bring over _The Muppet Movie_ , right that second. It’s still sitting by the TV, untouched, where it’s been for three days. John doesn't seen to mind, though, as long as he gets in his 'Popi and Talia snuggle time'.

Derek doesn’t mind, any of it.

He’s still thinking about that when he smells it. His hand stills, and Derek sniffs again just to be sure—but yes, that’s definitely arousal coming off Stiles. And since he feels pretty confident that’s not because of the gremlin story still being told, that means it’s because of him, and his hand trailing higher up Stiles' thigh.

He glances up and Stiles looks like he’s paying attention to the story but there's a little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. It reminds Derek of that very first knowing grin Stiles gave him before their first time. It's the 'I know what I want and I'm going to get it' look that Stiles all too often flashes at him. Derek's missed that smirk.

Boyd chuckles from where he's standing across from them, looking at Derek knowingly. "Hey Isaac, lets go get some food," he's shaking his head, amused.

"I just ate, like, five cupcakes," Isaac protests.

Boyd gives him a look and Isaac must get it because he looks at them then and he laughs. Derek rolls his eyes.

"What?" Scott asks, "what's going—" he stops suddenly, his nostrils flaring minutely and his eyes go wide. "Oh! Uh, yeah I'm starving—"

"We just ate, Scott," Allison interjects over his stammering.

"—could definitely go for some pizza."

Allison seems to get it then because she blushes and laughs awkwardly. "Yeah, pizza! You can't say no to pizza."

Stiles is pretending he doesn't know what the hell is wrong with them all but the little twinkle in his eye says otherwise. He helps Allison get Talia settled in her crib for her nap and Derek busies himself cleaning up everyone's plates and glasses, pointedly ignoring his pack's smirks as they gather their things.

Once he has the door closed behind them, he turns to find Stiles standing by the staircase, smiling so salaciously it makes Derek's breath catch.

"She's asleep," Stiles smiles.

"Good." Derek walks to him and slides his arms around Stiles' waist, leaning to kiss him. "We can take a nap," he says when he pulls back, face serious.

Stiles face falls for a fraction of a second and then he's shoving Derek back, smiling. "Asshole."

Derek laughs and pulls him close again. "But are you sure you're—"

"There's nothing wrong with my dick, you fucker," Stiles interrupts with another shove.

“I was going to say _not too tired_ ,” Derek says, grinning.

“Sure you were.” Stiles kisses him, hard, and with more fervor than he has since the Harvest Moon, because this is actually going somewhere. They’ve both been so exhausted with a newborn, and from the journey back to Beacon Hills, which had taken _days_ to recover from. Derek’s still having nightmares about Talia’s high-pitched, never-ending screaming.

Stiles tugs at the hem of Derek’s shirt, breaking the kiss long enough to pull it up and over his head, and Derek loves the way his eyes get darker as he stares at him.

“Take a picture,” Derek deadpans. “It’ll last longer.”

Stiles’ eyes snap back up to his face, caught, and he flips him off before taking off running up the staircase. “Still not funny,” he says over his shoulder.

Derek rushes after him and tackles him onto the bed. The sound of Stiles laughing again makes Derek's heart clench, every time. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the sound.

They tussle and end up rolling off the bed with a thunk, freezing when Talia makes a sound downstairs. "I guess we need to be quiet now," Stiles whispers once it's clear she's not waking up.

"So... how do you want..." Derek trails off but Stiles picks it up.

"I want you to ride me," he says, eyes dark, licking his lips.

Derek growls, kissing him again and yanking at his shirt. He gets impatient when it catches on Stiles' arm and he just rips it off.

"Hey!" Stiles protests, but there's no heat in it, his smile wide and bright.

"I want you so bad right now," Derek snarls into Stiles' neck. It hasn't been as long as their last dry spell but Stiles is recovered now and he wants Derek too, wants _all of him_. Derek's more romantic than he'd admit to _anyone_ and Stiles acknowledging him as his mate does something to Derek he's not sure how to qualify.

Stiles pulls at his belt frantically. "Fuck, yes, oh my god, I can't wait, get your fucking tight ass jeans off. Now."

Derek _whines_ at how needy he sounds, reaching down to knock Stiles’ hand aside from his belt where he’s making no progress and do it himself. He has to shift and squirm to get his jeans off, all while Stiles threads one hand through his hair and complains about werewolf speed still being too damn slow.

Stiles leans in to kiss him the second he’s pushed them down, along with his briefs, though one leg is still trapped in the cuff of his pants. It’s frenzied and sloppy, both of them just needing contact, now.

Stiles’ jeans, at least, are easier to maneuver him out of. He _lost_ weight during the pregnancy, and his clothes still hang off him, but he’s looking more like himself with every day. Right now, though, it just means Derek’s able to tug his pants down his legs and toss them onto the floor without conflict.

While he's up, Derek fetches the lube, and Stiles moves to the center of the bed so he's laying there with his legs spread, fisting his cock while he watches Derek. He's got a small pleased smile on his lips, his eyes crinkling up when he makes contact with Derek.

"What?" Stiles says, and Derek realizes he's staring, stopped in his tracks. "You're not freaking out about something, are you?"

Stiles looks unsure and Derek never wants to see that look on him again so he shakes himself out of it. "No. I just...” he hesitates, not sure how to put into words what he’s feeling. How overwhelming it is to know that this, that Stiles and everything that comes with him, is his. “I’m happy,” he finishes after a moment, and hoping that Stiles gets it.

Stiles’ face flickers through a set of emotions that Derek’s not sure how to classify, before finally he huffs, holding out his arms for him. “Will you just get back over here before you make me cry or something? I cry at everything now, so don’t take it personally.”

Derek smiles slowly, relieved, and climbs back onto the bed with him. “Yeah, yeah, I love you too.”

Stiles pulls his head down when he’s near enough and kisses him. There’s still urgency there, but also something more, something that Derek knows he could get used to. But then he’s tugging the bottle of lube out of Derek’s hands and looking smug, so the moment never gets too saccharine.

Derek kneels over him, legs straddling his waist and bends down to kiss him, feeling the warm press of wet fingers against him, and Stiles doesn’t waste any time, sliding three in, knowing Derek can take it. Derek groans, presses back into it, his lips moving down Stiles' jaw to nip at his neck while Stiles works him open.

He trails a hand across Stiles' chest to pinch his nipple while he bites at his shoulder and Stiles arches against him, groaning, the rhythm of his fingers faltering.

"Jesus." Stiles breath is coming out heavy, his eyes blown and his lips red. Derek's never been more turned on or in love, and that might scare him a little—the second part, at least—but he wouldn't trade it for anything.

"Are you good?" Stiles asks, looking a touch desperate.

Derek answers with a bruising kiss, falling to his elbows so he can push his hands into Stiles' hair.

"Is that a 'yes'?" Stiles is laughing now, his voice hoarse.

"Yes, dammit," Derek says, leaning back. He grabs the lube and slicks Stiles' cock, giving him a few extra tugs with a lewd smile.

Stiles groans, tipping his head back. “ _Fuck_ , Derek, will you just...”

Derek silences him with another kiss, before he pulls back and shifts his weight so he can lower himself down onto Stiles’ cock. He groans and Stiles swears, his head thrown back, mouth wide open, his chest heaving.

Derek loves this, taking his time, riding him maddeningly slow until Stiles is begging for it. He loves to watch him—the way his eyes are half-lidded and his facial features go tight with tension, until Derek can unravel him.

“You are _so_ good at that,” Stiles says, choking out, high-pitched laugh on the end. He reaches out to run his fingers down Derek’s chest, across his side, and then settle at his thigh to squeeze. “You should just do this, all the time. Nothing else.”

“Why are you still talking?” Derek asks, punctuating it by pushing down against him harder. Stiles answers with an unintelligible moan, just as Derek intended, but he starts thrusting his hips up to meet Derek.

Derek keeps it up, slowly pressing down and pulling back, rolling his hips just so. Stiles keeps moaning, there's sweat across his chest that Derek really wants to taste but he doesn't want to change what they’re doing. Derek finds the lube again and coats his hand so he can start jacking himself off. Stiles' eyes shoot open and if possible, he looks even more wrecked, watching Derek fist his cock while fucking himself on Stiles'.

Derek feels it building low in his stomach, his need amping up, so he reaches his other hand back to press a finger in Stiles. Stiles arches up. "Oh fucking christ," he's gasping and Derek picks up his speed. He firms his grip on himself and slams down onto Stiles harder, adding another finger.

“Yeah, come on,” Derek says, voice throaty.

Stiles groans and pushes his hips up toward Derek, and he waves his hand at Derek’s where he’s jerking himself. “Let me,” Stiles says, the words knocked out with his harsh breaths. Derek curses quietly and lets Stiles take over, watching with half lidded eyes. Stiles is biting his lip in concentration, steadying himself on one elbow, his hips pounding up to fuck him.

Derek pulls his fingers out and leans down to bite and lick at Stiles’ nipple, and Stiles adjusts to the position, his thrusts only floundering a little until he’s got it again, snapping up and hitting Derek in just the right spot.

“Oh my god,” Stiles gasps, voice pitching when Derek bites down again.

Derek leans up so he can see the way Stiles is gasping breathlessly. Derek grins at him, his heart full and pounding with more than adrenaline. They lock eyes and Derek says, “I love you.”

Stiles smiles, eyes crinkling. “I love you, too.”

Derek ducks his head so Stiles won’t see how his cheeks flush and he tilts his hips so Stiles’ relentless pounding hits the spot again and again. He groans, his eyes falling shut, as Stiles picks up his speed on his cock, pulling and twisting just _right_ and the intense curling of pleasure fills him up and he’s coming, shooting over Stiles’ hand onto his stomach.

Stiles curses, snaps up a few more times, his hands moving to Derek’s hips, his fingers digging into his skin with a bruising grip, and then he gives one last thrust and holds there. His muscles are shaking underneath Derek with his orgasm, his eyes screwed shut and his breath ragged.

They stay still together for a moment, shaking and breathing, until Derek rises off of Stiles and falls beside him on the bed. “Fuck, I love that,” Stiles says, his breath coming back to him. Derek hums his agreement but he can’t talk yet. He lets his eyes close, relaxing fully into his bed—no, _their_ bed.

Stiles moves next to him and he has a flashback of that night, nearly a year ago now, of Stiles leaving him with barely a goodbye. But Stiles has just turned to face him, face relaxed and eyes fond.

“Hey,” Derek says, voice soft.

“Hi.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles’ pauses at that, eyes squinting as he weighs the words in his head. “For what?”

Derek’s not sure how to answer that. Because a year ago, Stiles would be rummaging around in the dark for his clothes right now, but instead he’s here, settled and sleepy and _staying_ , with their daughter just downstairs. Derek feels confident in a way he never has before, and he’s happy. That’s all because of Stiles.

“Just... thanks.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, not quite believing, but then he shrugs and shifts to lean his head against Derek’s shoulder. “Well... thanks to you too?” He yawns, worn out. “Now shut up, she’ll be awake in a few hours.”

Derek presses a kiss to his forehead and closes his eyes. He couldn’t be happier.


	14. Epilogue

Stiles carries a stack of quilted blankets outside and begins laying them out around where some of the pack are adding tinder and split logs to where the bonfire will be soon, once the sun finishes setting. He can already make out the outline of the Harvest Moon in the sky, seeming brighter for some reason this year, and thinks maybe that explains why everyone’s in even better spirits than usual.

Or maybe they’re just excited about the maypole being set up. That’s definitely new.

“I can help with that,” Aurora says, reaching to take some of the quilts from him. She’s pregnant _again_ , and he tries to take them back from her.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing any work.” He points at her. “Not a werewolf. You have to be tired.”

“But better at channeling my energy than you,” she says, which, fair enough. She starts laying out the rest of the quilts in her hands, humming something he doesn’t recognize.

“I’ve gotten better at using my magic,” Stiles argues, and closes his eyes, concentrating on making a quick, small burst of light flash above them, like a firework going off. When he opens his eyes, she’s smiling and pulls him into a tight hug.

“You _must_ show Rufus later,” she says, and he can feel how proud she is.

"Only if he promises to wear pants," he says, smiling.

She laughs. "You and I both know that won’t happen. Pants only 'serve to police our body's natural state and confine our soul to this realm’."

Stiles is all too familiar with Rufus' 'why I choose to be free of clothes' manifesto. He goes back to work spreading their blankets out by the fire, near enough that Talia won't be cold but not so close that she'll be anywhere near tripping into it. The near miss two years ago had Derek in protective hysterics for the rest of their stay, and he’d prefer not to have a repeat this year. Stiles definitely couldn't fault his overprotectiveness on that one.

He sits to test out their spot, leaning back on his hands with his legs stretched out in front, ankles crossed. Derek's helping Nathaniel, a newer Beta to the commune, carry logs to the fire that would surely crush Stiles easily. Talia is running with Seagull and Trickle—Aurora and Rufus' third child who is only a year younger than Talia—around Rufus as he installs the maypole. Boyd is standing nearby, arms crossed over his chest, as he supervises Rufus and the others.

The girls have found some extra ribbons and are dancing and jumping, swinging them through the air like a stylistic gymnastic routine.

“I can’t believe she’s almost five,” John says, walking up to the laid out blankets, holding a small bucket of iced beer. He sets it aside and pulls two out, holding one toward Stiles.

Stiles takes it with a nod. “She asked for an iPad for her birthday.”

“You asked for a horse,” John says, sitting down beside him. “Doesn’t mean you got one.”

Stiles smiles, watching Talia and Trickle run over to Boyd, showing off their ribbon twirling. “Yeah, but she’s got Derek wrapped around her little finger.”

“It’s not just Derek who spoils her rotten.” John gives him a knowing smile, but Stiles just bumps their shoulders and sips his beer, because he knows there’s no way even he could argue. Between Derek, Stiles, John and the rest of the pack, his daughter never wants for much of anything.

Rufus has finished with the maypole—even if Boyd seems to be checking it for stability now—and he lifts both Talia and Trickle onto his shoulders.

“I don’t know when I got used to this,” John says, looking around the commune. “I think naked werewolves used to seem way more bizarre. I’m not sure when or _why_ that stopped.” He pauses to consider that, watching as Rufus strolls past them, the girls pulling on his hair and laughing ‘faster, horsey!’ as he goes. John just sips his beer again with a shrug.

“It was probably around Rufus’ fourth full body hug,” Stiles suggests.

John shudders next to him, but he’s smiling and giving Rufus an answering nod to his wave, tipping his beer bottle toward them. Stiles can tell the moment Talia notices John’s presence because her face lights up, gap-toothed smile taking over her features. She jumps off Rufus’ shoulders and runs to them.

“Popi!”

John just barely gets his drink out of the way before she’s jumping into his arms. “Hey sweetheart.” He hugs her close, nuzzling her head.

“Did you see my ribbon?” she asks, bouncing in his lap and waving her hand still clutching the purple ribbon to show him. “It dances!”

“I did see,” John laughs, hugging her a little tighter. “Your dad and I were just talking about how things have changed since the first time we came here.”

“When I was born?” she asks, looking to Stiles for confirmation. He smiles back at her.

“Exactly.”

“What changed?” she asks, spinning the ribbon from her fingertips again.

Stiles blows out a breath, laughing a little. “What didn’t?” He glances around again—to where Derek is bringing back another pile of wood, to the back porch where Isaac is sitting with Lennon, showing her some game on his iPhone that she seems entranced by, while Peter rolls his eyes. He looks to the house, where he’s pretty sure Scott and Allison are helping the others cook (unless Allison has banished Scott from the kitchen because he’s a terrible cook, or Scott has banished her because she’s pregnant, in which case, they’re probably just making out somewhere). “We’re all a lot closer now,” he says, reaching over to run a hand through Talia’s unruly hair. “And happier. That’s mostly because of you.”

She smiles at him, but it’s more of a mischievous smirk and he knows what’s coming next. “Does that mean I get an iPad for my birfday?”

John gives her a fond look, laughing. “You’re just like your dad. Too smart for your own good.” She beams back at him, proud.

In the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Allison coming out the back door, carrying a platter of food. “You got her?” he asks his dad, who waves him off, and Stiles gets off the ground to jog over to her, taking the platter from her hands.

“What is with all of you pregnant women trying to _do things_?” he asks, gasping a little at the weight of the tray. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to sit around and have people try to force feed you herbal tea? That’s what you do here.”

Allison snorts. “Like you did? I’m still not convinced Derek didn’t forcibly have to tie you up to get you to accept help when you were pregnant.”

“What makes you think Derek tying me up would be a punishment?” Stiles grins at her, while she rolls her eyes, making a face.

Scott suddenly appears as he runs onto the back porch, skidding to a stop when he spots them, and focuses on Allison, his brows creased in concern. “I told you I’d carry it!” he says, pointing at the tray and sounding worried.

“Oh my god,” Allison says, half laughing and half exasperated. “I’m pregnant, not an invalid. Carrying a tray of _cheese and grapes_ is not going to kill me.”

“Can’t say the same for me,” Stiles says, looking at Scott. “Is this thing made out of plated gold or something? Scott, buddy, can you...”

Scott takes the tray from him easily, lifting it up with one hand. Stiles apparently needs to start working out more. “Was Derek this ridiculous with you?” Allison asks, making handmotions toward Scott as he moves off into the grass to set the tray with the rest of the food.

“Worse,” Stiles confirms. “Milk it for all it’s worth, trust me.”

She laughs, startled, and shakes her head at him. “Come find us later,” she says, moving after Scott to probably give him a piece of her mind.

When Stiles looks back toward where John and Talia had been, he finds the blanket empty. He glances around the field and doesn’t spot them, but he can guess where they’ve gone. She’s probably convinced him to go to the barn, to feed the chickens, because it’s Talia’s favorite thing to do here (though Derek insists it’s because Stiles had told her _he_ loved the chicken coop). It’s a wonder the chickens aren’t fatter after they leave, considering how often she convinces someone to take her.

He settles back down on their usual blanket, getting settled.

Derek tosses the last of the logs onto the pile of wood, wiping his hands after, before making his way towards Stiles. He sits with him, cross-legged. “Done enough manual labor for one day?” he teases, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I don’t think I saw you do anything.”

“I laid out a whole stack of quilts. And took a tray from Allison for about thirty seconds,” Stiles says, nodding. “Exhausting work, really.” He spreads his arms out. “Besides, my contribution to the Harvest Moon is to bring my sparkling wit and winning personality.”

Derek slides an arm around him, rubbing light circles into his back as he looks around the site. The sky’s much darker now than it was even ten minutes before, and Stiles can hear the crickets in the grass becoming animated, chirping happily around them. Most of the pack is outside now, finishing preparations—carrying out food, wine, getting the fire lit. It’s Stiles’ favorite part of every year, just watching the care and precision they take, the ritual nature of it all. It makes what happens soon—when the moon rises high enough and Sherice howls to start the festivities, and all hell breaks loose—that much sweeter.

“Is that what you think you bring?” Derek asks, nuzzling his neck and making Stiles smile.

A few minutes later, Talia comes running over, chickens forgotten and ribbon still clutched in her hand, as she throws herself at them. “Dad! Daddy!”

She lands partially in Stiles’ lap and he hisses before laughing a little, reaching to pull her hand from where it’s snagged in his jeans. “No claws, remember?”

She makes no sign that she’s listening at all (she inherited Stiles’ attention span), just rearranges herself so that she’s sitting in Stiles’ lap with her feet stretched over onto Derek’s. She tugs at Stiles’ sleeve. “Dad, dad, the Harvest Moon is coming.”

"Yeah," Stiles says, brushing a lock of her dark wild hair out of her face and behind her ear. "What're you going to do when it's full in the sky?"

"I'm gonna howl!" And she does, prompting the other kids running around to join in. John chuckles as he appears, sitting down on a nearby blanket beside Isaac and Boyd.

Derek and Stiles both laugh, and share a fond look. Talia wiggles in his lap and he pulls her close, wrapping an arm around her. “Wufus said there’s gonna be fireworks,” she says, looking at Derek hopefully.

He reaches over to tickle her side, smiling as she screams, playful, and squirms more in Stiles’ arms. “Rufus is right.”

“I saw the stock pile in the barn,” Stiles says, watching as Eucalyptus—and her new friend, a cow named Tofu—poke around the maypole, while Rufus does nothing to stop them from eating some of the ribbons. “It’s going to be huge.”

"I'm gonna stay up all night," she says, sounding confident.

It strikes Stiles sometimes, how alike she and Derek are, the similarities of the wolf something that they share along with their eyes and hair. She looks like a miniature Stiles with his upturned nose and long string bean limbs but with Derek's incandescent eyes and his thick dark hair. Stiles has only seen a few pictures, but he imagines she looks a lot like Laura did. Derek says she has Laura's panache.

"Of course you are," Derek says, beaming at her with the sort of pride he doesn't often show. "You're a Hale and it’s the Harvest Moon. The second most special full moon of all."

Her eyes go wide with wonder. "What's the first?"

He locks eyes with Stiles for a beat and he says, smiling, "The Blue Moon." Stiles’ heart jumps into his throat every time Derek looks at him like that.

“How come it’s special?” she asks, tugging lightly on Derek’s sleeve.

Stiles runs his fingers through her hair while Derek turns his attention back to her. He smiles, bopping her lightly on the nose with one finger. “Because it’s very rare, and magical.” His eyebrows raise comically on his forehead, and his captive audience of one is entranced.

“Magic?” she asks, lowering her voice, like it’s a secret. “Like dad?”

“Exactly,” Derek says. “It’s so magic, it gave us you.”

Stiles holds her a little tighter, his heart full in his chest, and Derek meets his gaze again. A little further off from them, the sound of Sherice’s howl pierces the night, signifying that the moon is high enough now for the festivities to begin.

“We howl now!” Talia tells them, joining in the pack when they answer Sherice’s call. Stiles even joins in.

Later, after the bonfire is crackling high into the sky, things have settled down. Scott and Allison are making out on their blanket not too far off, John is sharing a bottle of wine with Sherice and Stiles can hear his laughter occasionally. Most of the Harrison wolves are either off in the forest or talking amongst themselves.

Talia is asleep between them, wrapped up in a bundle of blankets, holding her stuffed wolf she's had since birth, Rufus Bear the Second, named after the one and only. Stiles looks over to Derek and is caught in the memory of their first Harvest Moon with the Harrison’s. Derek's sitting in the same manner as then, with his face to the sky, bathed in moonlight and the glow of the fire. Stiles feels overcome with his love for him.

Derek must sense his heartbeat because he turns his head to look at him. "What?" Derek asks, smirking.

"Do you remember our first Harvest Moon here?"

In better light, Stiles would swear Derek is blushing. He ducks his head. "How could I forget?"

"Because it was so mind blowing?"

"No, because you broke my heart after." Derek's teasing, he knows because he's laughing, but the memory still makes Stiles feel guilty.

"Ouch," he says, slapping a hand to his chest, but he's smiling.

"You know," Derek starts, looking almost shy, like he's nervous. "There's a blue moon next month."

Stiles whips his head back from where he'd been looking at the fire. "No fucking way," he says as fast as possible.

Derek laughs loudly, making Talia shift, startling her awake. "Sorry, go back to sleep," Derek whispers, placing a hand on her back, rubbing until she settles again, and then looking back at Stiles with a guilty but fond expression.

"Just think about it," Derek says, quietly.

Stiles looks between Derek and Talia, his mate and daughter, his little family, and he thinks... maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We just wanted to thank our readers again for sticking with us, and for all of your lovely, wonderful comments that totally made our days. We know it kind of sucked having to wait for installments, but it gave us time to finesse this (and work in an extra 5K!), so hopefully you forgive us.

**Author's Note:**

> we be tumblin: [clarkoholic](http://clarkoholic.tumblr.com/) & [boomboxgeneration](http://boomboxgeneration.tumblr.com/)


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